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Chap... A~ Copyright No...—. 
_ TZ-3 
Shell _ 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






' 










, / 






































THE 

HEART 

OF 

HETTA 











* 












































•• 














































From her window she gazed at them 


• • • • 














The 

Heart of Hetta 

By ✓ 

Effie Adelaide Rowlands 

Author of My Pretty Jane , Against the World, Etc. 



ILLUSTRATED 


Chicag o 

Laird & Lee, Publishers 








6 


a a*no 

"a: o' v.“ v / 


1482 


2 


Library of Congress 

Two Copies RECEIVED ' 

JUL 5 1900 

Copyright entry 

n„ 60 

SECOND COPY. | 

Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION, 

JUL 6 1900 




I* 






Entered according to Act of Congress in the year nineteen 
hundred, by 
WILLIAM H. LEE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 








CONTENTS, 


Chaptkr. 

I. The Ashes of the Past, 

II. Hetta Makes a Friend, - 

III. Nothing so Dead as a Dead Dove, - 

IV. Almost a Tragedy, - 

V. A Motherly Creature, 

VI. Dove’s Foolish Young Dream, - 

VII. Gavin Dennison, Tutor, 

VIII. The Daunching of a New Craft, 

IX. Hearts of Gold, - 

X. Hetta’s First Great Sorrow, 

XI. Anne Foster’s New Incarnation, 

XII. The Strange Ways of Fate, 

XIII. Sir William’s Discovery, 

XIV. At Cross Purposes, ... 

XV. Face to Face, - 

XVI. “My Dord,” He Said, “I Have No Father,” 

XVII. Hetta’s Greatest Sorrow, 

XVIII. A Successful Man, - 

XIX. Anne Foster in a New Part, 

XX. The Day of Reckoning, 

XXI. Gavin Dennison’s Struggle, 

XXII. “Some Day, I Will Come—” 

XXIII. Anne Foster’s Dast Blow, 

XXIV. “Oh! If I Had Only Known—” 


Page. 

7 

30 

38 

56 

66 

82 

95 

107 

122 

137 

146 

162 

167 

182 

191 

204 

214 

226 

231 

241 

251 

262 

272 

287 



. 

. 

















THE HEART OF HETTA. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 

Dusk had fallen on the sharp, red, golden, sun¬ 
shine of the frosty afternoon. The half light was 
mysterious and fairylike. The hum and click and 
buzz of the numerous skaters, as they flew over the 
polished surface of the lake, made a sort of har¬ 
monious setting to the sound of their laughing 
voices. 

In another quarter of an hour the gardeners at 
Turret Teignton would have turned the dusk into 
light again, setting flame to the myriads of colored 
lamps that were dotted will-o’-the-wisp like among 
the trees that grew so close on the bank, and stud¬ 
ded the small island in the centre of the lake. It 
was freezing hard still. The air was piercingly cold 
to all save the skaters. 

“No change in the weather this week, Colonel,” 
said a pretty woman’s voice, from a sheltered cor¬ 
ner of the boathouse. 

Colonel Lorrimer shook his head. 

( 7 ) 



8 


THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


‘'Won’t break up for another fortnight,” he said, 
and he struck the ice half viciously with his stick as 
he spoke. “A fortnight!” he repeated, a little ir¬ 
ritably. “I’m afraid it looks much more like lasting 
a month!” 

Someone came gliding up to him at this moment, 
someone who moved over the ice, in and out of the 
busy throng, with the ease and swiftness of a bird. 

“Oh! my poor, poor daddy,” said this slender 
girlish someone. She put her hand through his 
arm, and nestled a little towards him. Dim as the 
light was, it could not hide the brilliancy of her 
eyes. “Oh! my poor daddy. And there won’t be 
one single horse left in the stables with its head 
on—not one single one! Will there, my daddy?” 

Colonel Lorrimer joined in the laugh that fol¬ 
lowed this little remark. 

“You monkey! What do you mean by making 
fun of your father, eh?” 

“Couie and skate,” was the girl’s answer. “Do 
you know I believe you are nothing but a dear old 
fraud. Sir William has been telling me of the fine 
times you must have had that winter you spent in 
Canada. He says he is sure you can skate, if you 
only make up your mind to it.” 

“Sir William has a fine invention of his own,” 
Colonel Lorrimer observed, a little dryly; “tell him 1 




THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


I prefer to keep my bones together as long as I 
can. Hetta,” the voice changed a little, “you must 
be dead tired. You have had those things on your 
feet for the last four hours.” 

Hetta laughed. 

“Fancy being tired of skating. Why I could go 
on forever!” She lifted up her face, and touched 
his cheek with her lips. “It is you who must be 
tired, and cold, too. Don’t wait for me, dear daddy. 
You have been standing here far too long.” Then 
she turned and looked towards the corner where 
the woman’s figure was seated, wrapped about in 
costly furs. “I’m afraid you must be cold, too, Mrs. 
Tempest,” she said, with a touch of shyness in her 
very pretty voice. 

“On the contrary, I am quite warm. I have 
been much amused. I see they are just beginning 
to light the lanterns; it is quite like fairyland.” 

“You must see it when the moon gets up,” Hetta 
said, eagerly. “It will be glorious to-night when 
we all come back from dinner. You will come too, 
will you not? And Sir William and I will pull you 
round in the sledge. If you are wrapped up very 
warmly, you will love it, I am sure.” 

There was something exhilarating and infectious 
in her happy youth; the older woman found herself 
smiling in sympathy with it unconsciously. 


10 


THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


Colonel Lorrimer checked the girl anxiously. 

“Hetta! I cannot let you come and fatigue your¬ 
self to-night. You will be ill.” 

Hetta poised herself on her skate-s like a wild bird 
preparing for flight. 

“Isn’t he a dear, sweet, old thing?” she said, 
looking backwards at Mrs. Tempest. “Please tell 
him I love him, but I am going to disobey him all 
the same.” She was gone as she spoke, darting 
into the shadows of the misty light, leaving the 
echo of her bright little laugh like a strain of music 
behind her as she went. 

“What a beautiful little creature she is,” said Mrs. 
Tempest, warmly, and most generously too, for she 
was a woman who was beautiful herself, and not 
young. 

Colonel Lorrimer came and sat beside her. He 
mounted the few steps wearily, almost feebly. 

“I want you to learn to care for her, dear friend,” 
he said, in a low voice, a voice that had trouble in 
it. “I want you to love my Hetta.” 

“That is something that will not cost me very 
much!” 

The woman’s delicate hand was slipped from her 
big sable muff and outstretched towards him. He 
took the hand half reverently. 

“She is my life!” he said an instant later. “If 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


11 


Hetta were not with me—I—well! I don’t fancy 
what little there is left of me would trouble this 
world long!” 

“Oh! hush!” Mrs. Tempest said gently. She 
bent towards him a little. “But you are not ailing 
now? You recovered your strength fully, did you 
not? You have had no bad illness all these years, 
have you?” 

Colonel Lorrimer laughed slightly. 

“Oh! I am strong enough for an ordinary life. 
The old wounds only speak occasionally. I can do 
my half-day with the hounds as well as the best of 
’em yet. It is not of my health I am thinking.” 

He paused, and the woman, beside him filled up 
that pause quickly and correctly in her own mind. 

“So we women, then, are not the only ones who 
fret over our mistakes,” she said to herself, with a 
sigh and a touch of cynicism. 

“It should be a satisfaction to' you to see your 
girl safe in her old home, surrounded by every¬ 
thing that belongs to her life by rights,” she said, 
breaking the pause after awhile; “and Hetta is 
happy; that at least should be a great consolation 
to you.” 

Colonel Lorrimer’s worn face lit up at these 
words, but the shadowed look returned almost im¬ 
mediately. There was a warm glow of light now 


12 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


over the lake and its environments, and Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest could see her companion quite clearly. She 
could see well into' the distance also, and her eyes 
had gone quickly after a certain slender figure in a 
gray corduroy skating-dress who was flashing in 
and out of the other people, her hand linked in that 
of a tall, well-formed young man, who, even far 
away, could be recognized as exceptionally hand¬ 
some. There was a slight, very slight, contraction 
of Judith Tempest’s finely marked brows as she 
watched Hetta Lorrimer skating with Sir William 
Herrick. It was perchance the atmosphere of spon¬ 
taneous gaiety and early youth that clung about 
every line of the girl’s figure that sent now a little 
natural pang of envious regret to the heart of the 
woman just to counterbalance her first generous 
impulse of admiration. She turned her eyes away 
from the skaters a little resolutely. 

“I believe it will do you good if you tell me all 
that is worrying you,” she said very gently to' the 
man beside her. She had a great pity stirring her 
heart for him. There was that written in his face 
that spoke to her of strong suffering, and, despite 
his brave words, of a strength that was slowly 
waning. “I believe also, dear friend, it may do you 
good to know that I consider you did the very 
wisest thing possible when you married again.” 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


13 


Colonel Lorrimer looked at her an instant. 

“I wish,” he said, in a low tone, “I wish I could 
think so too. Oh! don’t misunderstand me. I 
am not going to cavil at my wife. She is a good 
creature. If she does not fit in exactly to the re¬ 
quirements of her position, she makes amends by 
her honesty'and kindness of heart. If it were only 
my wife, I should not trouble as I do about the 
future and Hetta.” 

“You mean that you do not find the daughter 
sympathetic? I have heard something of this Miss 
Foster; she has the reputation of being clever. 
When does she come home? I should like to see 
her.” 

“She will return to-morrow, I fancy.” 

Colonel Lorrimer got up from his seat on the 
step very slowly. “I don’t think I can allow you to> 
sit there any longer,” he said, with charming cour¬ 
tesy. “Suppose we walk across the ice and capture 
that wild bird? It is time she went home to rest 
a little.” 

Mrs. Tempest took his hand and stepped down 
on to the ice. She was a regally tall woman, not 
large, but very graceful; she moved in the most 
harmonious way. 

She resumed the broken thread of their conver- 


14 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


sation as they walked very slowly over the polished 
surface of the frozen lake. 

"It is this daughter who troubles you, Lorrimer?” 
she asked gently. 

Colonel Lorrimer paused before answering. 

“I wish I knew how to tell you what does trouble 
me,” he said; then, half wistfully, “Perhaps, when 
you have met Anne, you may understand things 
better, and perhaps, too, you may only come to the 
conclusion that I am an old fool, with a pack of 
nonsense in my head. Sometimes I have this opin¬ 
ion myself!” 

Mrs. Tempest smiled faintly; she was looking 
towards Hetta, who had caught sight of her father, 
and was flying to meet him. 

“They disagree, of course,” she said; “but that 
is so natural,” she added, without waiting for his 
answer. “Hetta was a queen with an undivided 
kingdom before this other girl came. She must 
feel the change.” She paused here a long moment. 

“I suppose, Lorrimer, that you were careful to 
make some good arrangement for the child’s fu¬ 
ture—some definite settlement as to this dear old 
place?” she said, when she spoke again. 

Colonel Lorrimer laughed grimly. 

“Hetta has absolutely nothing to come to her; 
nothing to look to save what my wife may feel in- 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


15 


dined to do for her. The house itself is Anne’s 
property, bought with her money. I married to 
save us from absolute ruin, from starvation, if you 
want the actual truth. Believe me, it was not the 
moment to make terms.” 

The woman made no> answer. 

Something of the true character of the man was 
forced home to her for the first time in this speech. 
She had known and liked Henry Lorrimer most 
sincerely ever since they had become friends out 
in sultry Calcutta years before. He had charmed 
her always, none the less for the fact that he was 
held to be a hero; one who had done grand work 
in his career; a man who had suffered for his coun¬ 
try. There had always been something irresistibly 
attractive about Henry Lorrimer. The story of his 
wonderful soldierly skill, and power of dealing with 
native difficulties, had run side by side with the 
story of his broken heart, of his dead young wife, 
of his motherless child. Seventeen years lay 
stretched between those days and these, yet Judith 
Tempest, passing through the various stages of a 
brilliant social career, had never lost remembrance 
of the invalided man, whose life had had such a 
pathetic interest for her when her own little story 
was just about to begin. Others who had known 
Lorrimer better than she, had always insisted on 


16 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


the fact that despite his heroism the man was weak 
in some things to the verge of folly, and even in the 
far-off land in which she had lived rumors had 
reached her now and then of Colonel Lorrimer’s 
rash speculative undertakings, and of his disastrous 
experiences in connection with them. Finally the 
news had come of his second marriage, and of the 
wonderful fortune that his second wife was said to 
possess. 

“Something for Lorrimer to play ducks and 
drakes with, dear old chap!” her husband had said, 
when the matter was discussed between them. But 
there came no more rumors of speculation, and it 
was generally supposed that Lorrimer had grown 
wiser with bitter experience and advancing years. 

When widowhood brought her to England, Ju¬ 
dith Tempest came into contact once more with her 
old friend. She learned definitely then what she 
had always imagined—that money, and money 
alone, had been the reason for Henry Lorrimer’s 
second marriage. Her woman’s heart rebelled 
unconsciously against so prosaic an ending to a 
romance that had seemed deathless, till she remem¬ 
bered the existence of Lorrimer’s girl, and then she 
thought she understood all. 

It was a simple story to understand, she had told 
herself, this marriage with a wealthy tradesman’s 


THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


17 


<» 


widow—this installation of a new mistress in beau¬ 
tiful old Turret Teignton. But a few days’ acquaint¬ 
ance with the home life of her hero of seventeen 
years ago, opened Mrs. Tempest’s eyes to what 
depths and drifts of feelings may be covered by the 
most commonplace of stories. 

“Mrs. Lorrimer is certainly a kind, good creature; 
she will always do what is right, I am sure,” she 
found herself saying now to the Colonel, in a lame 
way, and then she pulled herself up sharply, re¬ 
membering how much was conveyed in these words. 
“But, you know, I cannot permit you to have such 
a pessimistic view of yourself and things in general. 
I am exceedingly glad I let you persuade me to 
come down here, Lorrimer. I must have some 
quiet chats with you. Do you remember our long 
conversations of years ago? Girl as I was then, I 
am vain enough to believe I did you good. I am 
going to see if I have lost the art of consolation in 
my old age.” 

“If you will be good to Hetta, you will give me 
peace in my grave,” the man answered, in a low 
voice. 

Judith Tempest was conscious of a touch of ir¬ 
ritation. Hetia was just before them, and the soft 
colored light of the faintly swaying lanterns lit up 
the girl’s animated and happy face as clearly as 


18 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


though it had been day. If ever there seemed to 
be a young creature who might pass for the em¬ 
bodiment of joyousness, it was surely this fair young 
girl. Sympathetic as she was, Mrs. Tempest could 
not honestly find it in her heart to follow the father 
in his declared doubt and trouble about Hetta. 

It was, of course, a mortification to him to realize 
that through his own folly and weakness he had 
robbed his child of what should have been hers, and 
equally, no doubt, there would be bitterness in 
store for Hetta when she was left fatherless, and had 
to see her old home pass to these other women 
who shared it with her now. 

But, after all, if it had not been for Anne Foster 
and her mother, the life that Hetta now led would, 
on her father’s own confession, have been some¬ 
thing very much less desirable, and therefore, al¬ 
though Mrs. Tempest recognized the more prom¬ 
inently objectionable points in connection with her 
old friend’s marriage, she was too' just to shut her 
eyes to the fact that there were good points also. 

Certainly the trouble, the oppressive trouble that 
seemed to be haunting the man for his child and 
her future, did not find a wholly responsive echo 
in Judith Tempest’s heart. It struck her as being 
morbid and unreasonable, and had she not seen 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


19 


so surely that he was a dying man, she would have 
dismissed it with a certain amount of contempt. 

She found herself watching Hetta, very closely as 
the girl argued laughingly with her father, and tried 
to wheedle him into letting her remain at least half 
an hour on the ice, and she gave an unconscious 
sigh as Colonel Lorrimer (having proved adamant 
to all pretty persuasions) went back with Hetta to 
the boathouse to have her skates removed. 

Sir William Herrick would have accompanied 
them, but seeing Mrs. Tempest alone, he stopped 
behind. 

“You are too evidently enjoying yourself to ne¬ 
cessitate the conventional question,” she said to the 
young man, as, having snapped his skates from his 
feet, he walked back with her slowly to> the bank. 
“I hope you are very much obliged to me, Will, 
for bringing you to Turret Teignton?” 

“I usually do enjoy myself,” William Herrick 
said, good humoredly. “It’s a trick I brought into 
the world with me, I think, for bad times never 
seem to come my way!” 

“A very useful trick whenever learned.” Mrs. 
Tempest’s voice was a little dry. “You are not in a 
hurry to get back to town then?” 

“Not in the very least. These are the most com¬ 
fortable quarters I have been in for a very long 


20 


THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


time. Besides, with weather like this, one must be 
in the country. Nice old chap the Colonel,” the 
young man added genially. “I am afraid, though, 
he is in a bad way.” 

“He has been an invalid for years,” said Mrs. 
Tempest, hurriedly somehow, though she had been 
irritated by her old friend, it hurt her to* hear him 
and his health discussed in this matter of fact way. 

Sir William was not too* well versed in the niceties 
of an intonation. 

“He won’t be an invalid or anything else much 
longer,” he said, almost briskly. 

“Oh! Will. I hope you are wrong!” 

There was such genuine pain in her voice now 
that it could not fail but touch him. 

“I did not know you cared for the Colonel so 
much, Aunt Judith.” 

Mrs. Tempest was silent a moment. 

“I suppose I care more for the associations and 
the memories that are attached to my friendship 
than I do for my friend. We are so very selfish in 
all things, if we are only honest enough with our¬ 
selves to get at the actual truth,” she said. 

Sir William did not reply to* this bitter little 
speech. He was looking at Hetta who, robbed of 
her skates, was standing beside her father, with her 
hand linked in his arm. She was not laughing at 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


21 


that moment, and the lantern above the boathouse 
sending a broad flood of light upon her, seemed to 
have painted out the brilliancy of her color and the 
lustre of her eyes. As she moved slowly beside her 
father’s half feeble steps, there was a pathetic ele¬ 
ment about her which made itself felt to William 
Herrick for the first time since he had met her. 

“Well, I hope too, for Miss Lorrimer’s sake,” he 
said, almost involuntarily, “that I am wrong about 
her father.” 

Mrs. Tempest knit her brows. 

“Will, you are a great responsibility to me.” 

He turned towards her with an amused laugh. 

“And, pray, why, Aunt Judith?” 

They had reached the bank, and he helped her to 
climb from the ice to the frost-bound ground. 

“I cannot imagine why I, out of all the world, 
should have been chosen to take the cares- of a 
trustee and adviser upon my shoulders. T never 
should have done as your uncle ? s will required of 
me, if I had not believed you to be'a boy still—a 
nice little amenable boy, Will!” Mrs. Tempest fin¬ 
ished, with a faint laugh. 

“Can’t you try and imagine it still, dear?” he 
asked, with the charm and the good humor that 
were his most prominent characteristics. 

Mrs. Tempest seemed to be in a wayward mood. 


22 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


“You were only a boy when we came to England 
eight years ago,” she answered him. “Why, oh, 
why could you not have remained where you were, 
Will?” 

“Is it my size you object to, or my weight?” he 
queried, with mischievous gravity. “Please let me 
know my worst failing without delay, and if it is 
possible, I will alter it.” 

Mrs. Tempest laughed. 

“You don’t treat me with the very smallest re¬ 
spect,” was her reply, but the sort of little frac¬ 
tiousness that had beset her all through the after¬ 
noon, began to melt away under the warm influence 
of his genial nature. It would take a very surly 
person indeed to remain bad-tempered long when 
in Will Herrick’s presence. “I want you to do me 
a favor, Will,” she asked him, suddenly. They were 
alone in the plantation. Hetta and her father had 
passed on ahead; the sound of their footsteps on the 
crisp earth was dying away faintly in the distance. 

Sir William responded immediately. 

“I felt quite sure you had something on your 
mind, dear. You have no idea how often you have 
scowled at me to-day.” 

Mrs. Tempest did not laugh. She was looking at 
his handsome face. The moon had crept up be¬ 
hind the trees and had shed a cold, pure pallor over 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


23 


the world. The frost on the grass and shrubs gave 
off innumerable sparks and flames of radiance. 
Even the diamonds in a jewel that clasped the furs 
at Judith Tempest's throat, had not more brilliancy 
than the frost-covered ground at their feet. 

A great desire to speak openly had forced that 
one sentence from her lips, but no sooner had it 
been uttered than she regretted it. She had only 
known Hetta Lorrimer a few days, and truly though 
she had given a generous measure of admiration 
to the girl’s beauty, she had not conceived such a 
strong liking for poor Colonel Lorrimer’s only child 
as was customary with her where young girls were 
concerned. Indeed she had almost decided that she 
did not like Hetta. She had found the girl’s laugh¬ 
ing gaiety a trifle selfish and callous; she was almost 
afraid she was insincere too. It could not have 
been natural, she said to herself, for Hetta or any¬ 
one placed as she was, to have conceived any real 
affection for the second Mrs. Lorrimer. Yet the 
girl had shown hardly any difference in her bright, 
loving manner when she spoke to her father, or 
when she addressed her stepmother. Of Mrs. Lor¬ 
rimer’s goodness of heart there was no more doubt 
than there was of her vulgarity of manner; both 
were equally patent to all the world. Yet Judith 
Tempest could not find it easy to credit Hetta with 


24 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


being sincere in her expressed feeling of tender 
consideration for the stout plebeian person who 
ruled now as mistress at Turret Teignton. Never¬ 
theless though her heart had failed to go out sym¬ 
pathetically to Hetta, she could not forgefr the 
father’s fond infatuation, and the girl’s youth, and 
purely on the latter account she regretted having 
asked that the cordial invitation she had received to 
stay an indefinite time at Turret Teignton might be 
extended also to her late husband’s nephew, and 
her own ward, Sir William Herrick. Had she 
realized that Hetta was no longer a child, she never 
would have been instrumental in having brought 
Herrick and the girl together. It was a circum¬ 
stance which might be fraught with misfortune at 
least to Hetta, and it would be a bitter reproach to 
her to have to remember that she had been how¬ 
ever indirectly, the cause of more pain to her old 
friend. As she had sat and watched those two 
young well-matched figures fly over the ice together 
all through the afternoon, she had felt more and 
more the necessity of bringing the acquaintance to 
a close before it ripened into an intimacy; and this 
was the motive that impelled her now to tell him 
she had a favor to ask. One glance, however, at 
his half-amused face, taught her prudence. It was 
not the moment to Speak; nor (and here Mrs, 


? 


THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 25 

Tempest was conscious of a feeling that was almost 
anxiety) nor was Herrick the man to suffer himself 
to be counselled on such a matter. She must hold 
her tongue and work in a different way. Her posi¬ 
tion with him was sufficiently anomalous as it was. 
She answered him as smoothly as was possible. 

“Did I scowl? I did not know I did; but I get 
into the trick of thinking deeply, and then I am no 
longer conscious of my expression. My favor is 
not a very great one, Will. I only want you to be 
good, and attend to all those letters to-night some¬ 
time. If you write them to-night,” Mrs. Tempest 
added, hurrying her words, “they can go out by 
the first post in the morning.” 

“All right, I will attend to them,” Sir William 
said; he rubbed some frozen snow from the blade 
of his skate with his thickly-gloved fingers. 

“I thought at first,” he said, with the same touch 
of amusement in his voice as she had caught in his 
face, “I thought at first that you were going to ask 
me something tremendous, Aunt Judith.” 

“Well, I have to treat it seriously, or you would 
never do what I want. The way you neglect your 
letters is simply impossible, Will,” the woman said, 
evenly. “Isn’t this a beautiful old place?” she asked 
an instant later. They had emerged from the plan¬ 
tation into the wide path leading to the quaint gray 


26 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


stone, ivy-garmented old house; “it must be quite 
heavenly in summer/’ 

“The tailor’s widow and daughter got full value 
for their money,” Herrick observed, as they paused 
to look over the sweeping lawn, lying a sheen of 
silver under the gleaming moon, to where far be¬ 
low, the ice-bound lake stretched its serpentine 
length. 

“I am curious to see the daughter,” Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest said, hurrying the conversation into another 
and a safer groove; “if she is anything like her 
mother.” 

The young man laughed slowly, his skates were 
clinking musically in his hand, as they walked 
briskly now up to the entrance of the house. 

“I don’t suppose she will be in the least like her 
mother,” he said. He spoke with a mixture of 
ennui and indifference. “Money, education, and 
shrewdness can do a lot even for an East End 
tailor’s daughter. It argues, moreover, a certain 
amount of good taste on the part of the mother to 
have chosen such a charming man as the Colonel; 
and even though she tied up her money too tightly 
to show an abundance of confidence in her choice,” 
he added, strangling a little yawn as he spoke, “it 
is possible her daughter may be less practical.” 

Mrs. Tempest had relapsed into silence. There 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


27 


were times when the young man’s mind was not 
easy to her to read. They had been thrown into 
constant companionship during the past five or six 
months since her return from India, and the woman 
had yielded almost immediately to Herrick’s boy¬ 
ish frankness and happy good nature. Her child¬ 
less and widowed life had taken a sort of glow of 
renewed youth and summer from her intercourse 
with him. He had charmed her heart from her 
absolutely. She left that although her love 
for him could very easily drift into the in¬ 
tensity, the infatuation that marked the love 
Lorrimer lavished on this girl, she was noth¬ 
ing loth to give herself up to it, for she 
was tasting a joy now, such as had never once 
crept into her life before, brilliant and luxurious as 
it had been. Nevertheless there came to her occa¬ 
sional moments when she wistfully longed t~ under¬ 
stand a little better the nature, the real being of the 
young man whose life and fortune had been placed 
so strangely for a time in her hands. She felt in 
these moments that Herrick, for all his wonderful 
charm and his straightforwardness, might be ca¬ 
pable of playing a role with her. Such a feeling 
was strong upon her now. 

She was conscious of having made a false move 
with him, and if she regretted the impulse which 


28 


THE ASHES OF THE PAST. 


had led her to bring Herrick to Turret Teignton, 
she regretted still more the impulse that had forced 
her to that attempt at a confidential counsel. In¬ 
stead of having done good, she had done mischief. 
Where there had only been a vague fear of flirta¬ 
tion and folly, 'there was now a very definite one, 
and since marriage with Hetta was something that 
she felt convinced had not the very faintest place in 
the youtig man’s thoughts or intentions, Judith 
Tempesfxould not but be hurt with herself for the 
mistake shqdiad made. 

She gave^a sigh of unconscious fatigue and an¬ 
noyance mingled, as she followed Sir William in 
through the low wide doorway, of the house.' A girl 
was standing alone in front of the big fire that sent 
a flowing embrace throughout the quaint, roomy 
hall, as they entered. She had slipped a heavy 
sealskin from her shoulders, and an exceedingly 
well-cut tweed gown showed the lines and curves 
of a fine supple figure to perfection. She wore a 
round felt hat and a thick veil, but as she turned 
towards the newcomers, a sort of radiance seemed 
to pass from her lips and eyes which even the veil 
could not diminish. 

She advanced to Mrs. Tempest, and held out her 
hand. It was then seen that she was as tall and as 
stately as the older woman, whose graceful height 





THE ASHES OE THE PAST. 


29 


had long passed into a story of fame out in India 
and other lands. 

“Colonel Lorrimer and Hetta have gone upstairs, 
so I must introduce myself, Mrs. Tempest,” she 
said, in a voice that had a kind of studied pride in 
it. “I am Anne Foster, and though I am afraid I 
am a little late in doing so, I am delighted to bid 
you and Sir William Herrick a most hearty wel¬ 
come to my home.” 


CHAPTER II. 


HETTA MAKES A FRIEND. 

Mrs. Tempest had finished her task of dressing 
for dinner, and was sitting in a big chair in front of 
the fire awaiting the clang of the gong, when there 
came a half-timid knock at the door, and as she 
turned her head to greet the intruder she saw, to her 
surprise, it was Hetta. Though she had been a 
guest a week at Turret Teigrtton, this was the first 
time the girl had made one step towards advancing 
their acquaintance into anything approaching 
friendship or intimacy. It had, indeed, struck Mrs. 
Tempest that Hetta had not conceived any par¬ 
ticular liking for herself, a matter that piqued her 
slightly, for she was a woman who, as a rule, was 
adored immediately by all girls. 

Hetta had changed her skating-dress for a little 
white frock. She looked very pretty and very 
young, and her big violet-gray eyes had a wistful 
and thoughtful expression that gave them a differ¬ 
ent and, if possible, a greater beauty. 

“I came to tell you, Mrs. Tempest, that I am 
not going back to skate to-night. I thought you 

( 30 ) 


HETTA MAKES A FRIEND. 


31 


might like to know,” she said, standing half-hes- 
itatingly by the door. 

Mrs. Tempest stretched out her hand. 

“I, too,” she said, speaking to' Hetta for the first 
time with a caress in her voice—“I, too, had deter¬ 
mined to turn myself away resolutely from the de¬ 
lights of the sledge ride you promised me. It re¬ 
quires more courage and youth than I possess to 
go out of this cosy, delightful house again to¬ 
night.” 

Hetta came forward slowly and touched Mrs. 
Tempest’s hand for an instant with her slender 
little fingers. 

“I am going to stay with daddy,” she said. She 
paused a moment, then she looked eagerly at the 
beautiful woman. “Please tell me something,” she 
asked, in a voice that was very unlike her usual 
bright laughing tone. “You—you will tell me the 
truth, I know, for you can have no reason to de¬ 
ceive me, and—” 

She broke off. Her hands were locked together 
as if she were in pain. 

“Do you think daddy is ill—really, really ill, I 
mean? Oh! please tell me just what you think, 
Mrs. Tempest. I want to know the truth.” 

Judith Tempest rose from her chair quickly; with 


32 


hetta makes a friend. 


a gesture of maternal tenderness, she put her hand 
on the girl’s shoulder. 

“What ideas have you got in your little head all 
of a sudden? Is there anything the matter with 
your father now, Hetta? Did he stay too long at 
the ice? Perhaps he is overtired.” 

Hetta did not look up, tears were gathering too 
thickly over her eyes. 

“To me, he is just the same, just as he has always 
been,” she said, brokenly; “but Anne has frightened 
me. Anne has come home quite unexpectedly. 
We found her waiting in the hall when we arrived. 
It was a great surprise.” 

Mrs. Tempest found her hand straying quite nat¬ 
urally to the soft dark hair that clustered on Hetta’s 
brow. She felt she was meeting the girl on an al¬ 
together new plane; she was conscious of an ele¬ 
ment of self-reproach for the swiftness with which 
she had judged this young creature, and found her 
so wanting in good qualities; and stronger than this, 
she was conscious of a renewed sense of uneasiness 
and of deep regret. 

“What is it Miss Foster has been saying to you, 
dear child?” she queried gently. 

Hetta looked up now, her face quivering with 
emotion. 

“Oh! she has frightened me. She has made my 


HETTA MAKES A FRIEND. 


33 


heart cold. I saw a strange look come in her face 
when she met daddy, but I did not understand what 
it could mean till we were alone. Then she told me. 
She says he is so terribly changed she would not 
have recognized him, and she has only been away 
six weeks, Mrs. Tempest.” 

Mrs. Tempest drew the tear-stained, anguished 
face towards her, and kissed it once, twice. 

“Miss Foster, I should imagine, is given to ex¬ 
aggeration,” she said, and she held Hetta’s head 
down on her shoulder. “No wonder you were 
frightened. But now you must listen to me. It is I 
cannot tell you how many years since I saw your 
father before this last return of mine to England 
(he was absent when my husband and I were here 
eight years ago), and yet, I assure you, it is mar¬ 
vellous to me how little changed he is in all these 
years, and how well he has kept, considering how 
his strength and youth were shattered. Miss Foster 
was wrong to have frightened you in this way.” 

“Oh!” Hetta said quickly, as she brushed away 
the tears from her eyes. “Oh! Anne did not mean 
to be unkind, Mrs. Tempest. She did not say this 
at all unkindly. I think she was really upse-t, and 
that is what has frightened me most of all!” 

Mrs. Tempest held the girl to her Heart a little 
longer. 


34 


hetta makes a friend. 


“You must not make troubles from imaginary 
things/’ she said, in her most tender manner. She 
knew she was not speaking easily, for indeed her 
own feelings were akin with Anne Foster where 
the poor Colonel was concerned, but it came natu¬ 
rally to her to soothe and minister, and to tell Hetta 
the truth was something she could not possibly 
have done. 

“You are sorry Miss Foster has come home, 
Hetta?” she asked a moment later, and a great sur¬ 
prise passed through her as the girl shook her head 
almost emphatically. “You like your stepsister 
then?” she queried, more perplexed by this than she 
could well have described, for she had mounted the 
stairs to her own room after that unexpected meet¬ 
ing with Anne Foster, irritated to the highest de¬ 
gree by the manner in which Colonel Lorrimer’s 
stepdaughter had demonstrated her position in the 
house. “You like Miss Foster?” she asked Hetta 
almost incredulously. 

The girl answered her quite briskly. 

“Oh! I am very fond of Anne, she is so clever and 
so good too. The house always seems strange when 
Anne is away. Things get neglected. I am sure if 
she had been here, daddy would not have looked 
ill. Anne takes such care of him!” 

Mrs. Tempest looked into the fire in a confused 


HETTA MAKES A FRIEND. 


35 


sort of way. There was no justification now for 
her to put down this speech to insincerity. The 
girl did not speak glibly or thoughtlessly. There 
was a ring of earnestness in her voice as she testi¬ 
fied so warmly to Anne Foster’s good qualities. 
Judith Tempest had been prepared for something 
quite different, and never more so than in this mo¬ 
ment, when the half-broken confidence Colonel 
Lorrimer had made her on the ice haunted her so 
persistently. She felt at a disadvantage somehow. 
One sentence interchanged between herself and 
Anne should not have been sufficient, in ordinary 
circumstances, to leave any particular impression 
on her mind, but Anne’s manner, her quickness in 
emphasizing her right to- rule all proceedings at 
Turret Teignton, flavored too strongly of vulgarity 
and pretentiousness to please so> refined a woman as 
Judith Tempest. She had, in truth, been ponder¬ 
ing over the whole position of affairs in the house 
where she was now a guest, and had been drifting 
into thoughts that were sorrowful enough for her 
old friend when Hetta had come to her. 

The fragrance of the girl’s young unsophisticated 
nature seemed to steal to her senses for the first 
time and in like fashion the father’s eagerness to 
bring his child within shelter of her womanly love 
and sympathy had its proper value for her now. 


36 


hetta makes a friend. 


She drew the girl out to speak of her father. Het- 
ta’s sorrow and fear were not to be easily assuaged. 

“You know the hours I have kept him standing 
down there in that cold, draughty boathouse!” she 
said, as they grew closer in sympathy. “It has been 
so- selfish of me—oh, so selfish!” 

“Your father has been happy watching you; and 
now, if he sees that pale little face and red eyes, 
what do you think he will say? He will be miser¬ 
able. Run along, bathe those eyes and rub those 
cheeks, and when you have had your dinner, put on 
your thick dress again and go back to the skating.” 

But Hetta shrank from this. 

“Oh! no—no. I could not enjoy myself to-night. 
I have had a shock. I must stay with daddy. Per¬ 
haps it is only as you say. Perhaps he will be quite 
well after dinner, but I shall not leave him to-night. 
I am glad you are going to stay, too. We must 
send Sir William to the ice; it will be so dull for 
him, won’t it?” 

Judith Tempest parted from the girl, lingeringly; 
a hundred different feelings and emotions clanged 
and mingled together as she listened to Hetta, and 
she woke to the fact that the heart of this beautiful 
young creature was after all, built up of those acute, 
sensitive, tender, unpractical, yet most precious 


HETTA MAKES A FRIEND. 


37 


qualities which the heart of a loving, suffering wom¬ 
an alone can combine. 

“I seem to be making a great many mistakes,” 
she said to herself, ruefully, as the announcement of 
dinner rang through the house, and Hetta flew for 
an instant to her room again to remove all trace of 
her sadness, before she met her father. “Now I 
feel half diffident to let myself form any judgment of 
this other girl, though it does not seem that I could 
go very wrong where she is concerned. I think I 
shall wait, however, and see how the character de¬ 
velops, that is, if I remain here long enough. My 
one task now will be to work as delicately as I can 
to get Will away. An hour ago I thought only of 
the father when I resolved on doing this—now I 
think only of Hetta. There is more to fear for 
Hetta from continued friendship with my handsome 
boy, than piqued vanity or disappointment. There 
could be something like a tragedy written by Will 
in that child’s heart, if myself, or some kind fate, 
does not intervene to save her!” 


CHAPTER III. 

nothing so dead as a dead love. 

The moon, whose glory Hetta had predicted to 
Mrs. Tempest, was riding high in the clear cloudless 
sky, as William Herrick and a tall woman’s figure 
passed out from the house and walked briskly down 
the avenue to the plantation and the lake. 

Hetta watched them go- from a corner of one of 
the drawing-room windows. She stifled a sigh as 
they disappeared, and then she wondered vaguely 
at the same time why it hurt her so much to do so 
simple a thing, and then she looked backwards into 
the room where her father was sitting playing be- 
zique with Mrs. Tempest, and her stepmother was 
snoozing audibly in one of the most comfortable 
chairs, and as she looked, the longing and excited 
thrill called into being by Herrick’s entreaties that 
she should accompany him to the ice faded away 
utterly. Hetta looked at her father’s dear, worn, 
thin face, with its silvered hair and heavy eyes, with 
a passion of new yearning love for him filling her 
heart. She went away from the window and stood 
beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder, and 
( 38 ) 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 39 


Judith Tempest smiled up at her encouragingly. 
Each moment was drawing the girl closer to her. 
Hetta in all her glory of glowing life and joyousness 
during the past week, had never once had the power 
to move her as she was moved to-night. 

Hetta’s soft playing, and snatches of sweet, old 
ballads, given with a pathos that hurt the heart of 
one of the listeners most deeply, served as a har¬ 
mony to the girl’s new and varied thoughts. Hetta 
seemed to have been separated from the simple de¬ 
lights of the past week as by a century. With her 
meeting with Anne, a cold chill wind seemed to 
have passed over the glow, the unconscious joy of 
her existence. She almost felt she hated the skat¬ 
ing. 

Remembrance of the lake, with its gay lamps, and 
busy, happy throng of people (all denizens of the 
village admitted by the Colonel’s good nature), 
brought back only the vision of her father, standing 
so patiently in the sharp, cold air, sending her a 
smile each time she passed him, and making never 
a murmur of fatigue or discomfort, no matter how 
long she remained. 

The girl’s heart was riven within her, as she 
thought on and on. She made a terrible discovery 
in that moment of solitude at the piano ; she realized 
that for one week (the long, short, brilliant indescrib- 


40 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 

able week since she had known William Herrick), 
she had put her father from his old place in her 
heart, and had given this place to the younger man. 
And now, even when the whole of her life yearned 
to show devotion to the man who had cared for her, 
and worshipped her from her birth, she had a strug¬ 
gle with herself to dethrone the other from the place 
he had usurped. 

There had been another pain, too, for little Hetta 
to learn this eventful evening; and it had come to 
her sharply, when with wistful resolution she had 
refused to comply with Herrick’s wish, and go back 
to the ice. The thought that she had hurt him was 
as cutting to bear as the thought of her father’s 
weakness. 

“But he could forgive me—he would not think 
me really unkind if he could know why I refused 
him. I wish now I had told him the truth, but it 
hurts me even to say to myself that I am anxious 
about daddy. It seems that if I say this there must 
be something really to be anxious about; and it is 
wrong, as Mrs. Tempest says, to even think these 
things without real cause.” The big wistful eyes 
went from the corner by the piano to rest on the 
Colonel’s face; it wore a smile, and Hetta was com¬ 
forted for a moment, till she remembered Herrick. 
“Perhaps Anne will tell him what she told me, then 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 41 


he will understand and forgive me,” she said to her¬ 
self softly. 

Anne Foster had something of a very different 
nature to discuss, however. When Sir William had 
found it impossible to tempt either Mrs. Tempest 
or Hetta out of the house, he had turned to Miss 
Foster and asked for the pleasure of her company, 
with the air of one who hazards something and ex¬ 
pects nothing. Anne had been most gracious. 

“If you will give me ten minutes, Sir William,” 
she said, with her radiant smile, a smile that seemed 
to startle people without touching them; “if you 
will give me ten minutes I will be ready. I would 
not have changed my gown for dinner had I 
thought twice; it was silly of me.” 

Herrick had, of course, expressed his pleasure to 
wait two hours for Miss Foster, and encased in his 
thick overcoat, he had established himself in front of 
the hall fire waiting for her to come downstairs 
again. 

The Colonel, having lingered a moment with him, 
had followed his wife and Mrs. Tempest into the 
drawing-room. 

“I know you will forgive me, Herrick, but the 
fact is I dare not stay in this hall; it is too cold for 
me in this weather!” 

Sir William had made response in his usual 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


charming fashion, and his eyes had smiled at Hetta, 
who was clinging to her father’s arm, as he spoke. 
There was more depth and disturbance in his gaze 
than he was probably aware of. Certainly he little 
dreamed of the effect he had produced on the tender 
heart of the young girl. As the door was closed, 
and she vanished from his sight, he was conscious of 
a new feeling for Hetta this night. She had amused 
him and pleased him exceedingly during the past 
week, but then, in this, she shared the honors with 
many another. Herrick was not wont to go a week 
without being amused and pleased by something 
feminine; age being, to a great extent, immaterial. 
He had given Hetta as much place in his thoughts, 
therefore, as he gave to mo-st pretty girls, but to¬ 
night he found she had slipped into another place. 
It was the old story, a desire for what might be 
unattainable, and a stronger element than Mrs. 
Tempest’s well-meant interference had worked to 
bring Hetta Lorrimer into the position of being 
unattainable to him. For the moment she did un¬ 
deniably hold that position; it was for the next 
hour or so to prove how long she was to hold it. 

Anne kept him waiting a good twenty minutes, 
but when she had finally appeared on the stairs she 
had made a picture that should have satisfied the 
most impatient of men. 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


43 


Sir William’s eyes, however, had expressed noth¬ 
ing definite as he had glanced up and seen her com¬ 
ing. The trim velvet skating-gown, with its sable 
accompaniments would, under ordinary circum¬ 
stances, have immediately appealed to him, but in 
that moment he was conscious only of the fact that 
the dark, picturesque face, that smiled at him from 
under the close-fitting sable cap, was the face of one 
whom he had injured, and who was prepared now 
to avenge herself for this wrong by all the means 
in her power. 

In complete silence he had put the sable-lined 
cloak she held out to him about her shapely shoul¬ 
ders, and in silence also he had opened the big 
hall door, and they had passed out into the white 
glory of the moonshine and the jewelled splendor 
of the frosty night. Not a word was spoken be¬ 
tween them as they walked briskly down the avenue, 
followed, as we know, by Hetta’s wistful eyes, till 
they had vanished into the shadows of the planta¬ 
tion ; but when they had passed from the clear sheen 
of the moonlight and were safe within the thick 
growth of the many trees, the silence was broken, 
and by Anne. 

“I am afraid my home-coming will have spoilt 
your visit to Turret Teignton, Sir William Her¬ 
rick,” she said; and though she spoke with a degree 


44 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 

of lightness, there was a far greater degree of bit¬ 
terness to counterbalance this. 

Herrick looked at her warily; he was absolutely 
at a disadvantage, an experience new and highly 
objectionable to him. 

“Say what you have to say, in God’s name, and 
be done with it!” he answered, half sullenly, after a 
pause. 

Anne Foster laughed. 

“My dear friend! if I began to say all I ought to 
say, I should keep you out here in the cold far 
longer than I fancy would be pleasant for you!” 
She finished with another laugh, then she turned 
her eyes toward him. There was a gleam of moon¬ 
light breaking the darkness here and there, 
and one of those stray beams fell on her face, illu¬ 
minating its dark beauty, and picking out the lustre 
of her strange eyes. “I shall say enough, be sure 
of that,” she said, coldly. 

They were moving at a snail’s pace over the 
rough earth; skating was evidently the last thing in 
their thoughts (and already, in her imagination, 
little Hetta had begun to picture them flying round 
the lake hand in hand!). There was an uncomfort¬ 
able pause between them after Anne’s last remark. 
It was a novel experience for William Herrick to 
be at a loss for words, or to meet with any occasion 





Skating — the last thing in their thoughts 












NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


45 


necessitating hot anger against anyone, much less 
against himself, yet this was the one dominant feel¬ 
ing with him now; anger, a very fury of anger 
against himself, and that old folly of a few years 
ago, unearthed now so unexpectedly. 

Anne accepted this silence as part of her triumph. 
She looked at his stalwart, handsome figure moving 
with such wealth of healthy grace and strength 
by her side, and she remembered how her eyes had 
been blinded by tears, brought by his callousness 
and cruelty, the last time they had been together. 

Her voice had the keen edge of a knife in it when 
she spoke next. 

“You know that I wrote to you twice, and you 
never replied to my letters!” 

“I never received any,” the man said, still in the 
same sullen fashion. 

Anne laughed again. 

“The trick of lying improves with years!” 

He turned, half savagely. 

“Look here,” he began, blusteringly (if Judith 
Tempest could have heard him then, her heart 
would have grown cold with surprise and horror; 
it would have been such a revelation for her, such 
an open expression of that strange vague element in 
his nature, she had found herself puzzling and 
troubling about so much), “look here, Anne, let us 


46 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


understand one another. You are evidently run¬ 
ning away with the notion that you can say just 
whatever you please, and—” 

“Say what I please?” Anne repeated, contemptu¬ 
ously; “why, of course 1 can. Say—and do what I 
please, too! I hold you in my hand, you see, Will; 
and I swear to you I mean to let you know this by 
every means in my power!” 

It was Herrick’s turn to laugh now. There was 
a touch of melodrama in this last speech of hers, 
that gave him back some of his old careless self. 
After all, what could she do? his mind questioned, 
hurriedly. Tell the story of their old acquaintance? 
Well, in this recital it would not be he who would 
suffer the most. Naturally viewed in the light of 
high principles, his conduct would not pass without 
severe condemnations, but then he could always 
urge youth as an excuse for all the manifold deeds 
of selfishness and wrong with which his life, since 
his boyhood, had been studded. Moreover, save 
with Judith Tempest, whose good opinion it was 
materially to his advantage to study, Herrick did 
not feel, now that the first edge of the surprise was 
wearing off, that he cared very much how widely 
Anne should advertise the story of their past friend¬ 
ship. 

He said as much to her now. He had lost his 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


47 


sullenness, his temporary discomfiture. He was 
himself again, and prepared for all that might come. 

“You want to have a downright quarrel with 
me,” he said to her, quite good humoredly; “well, 
take my advice, Anne, don’t do anything of the sort. 
You are clever enough to know perfectly well that 
if there is any master of the situation that lies be¬ 
tween us, I am that master! The world has never 
any real sympathy for a woman who proclaims her¬ 
self as having been wronged—in fact,” Herrick 
said, in an absolutely calm, genial way, “in fact such 
people are usually condemned as bores, and that is 
a role I am convinced you would never care to play 
at any time.” He held some branches on one side 
to let her pass; his manner was the perfection of 
courtesy. 

Anne neither looked at him, nor answered him. 
She seemed to move onwards towards the lake, and 
the boathouse, as though her limbs carried her 
mechanically. They were now in the full light of 
the moon again, and he saw that her dark face had 
a drawn, tired look. He construed the expression 
rightly into meaning the bitterness of one con¬ 
quered at least in one direction. She had com¬ 
menced boldly, but she had not the force at her 
command to go on. 

He pursued his speech, smoothly. 


48 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 

“You want to reproach me,” he said, his step 
keeping even time to hers. “You would like to put 
me at a disadvantage. I will confess I was so 
amazed to see you to-night filling so important a 
place in Colonel Lorrimer’s house (by the way, your 
change of name was a clever move, Anne), that for 
a brief moment you actually did have me at a dis¬ 
advantage. But now that I have recovered my sur¬ 
prise, I am more than prepared for all you have to 
say to me. We are comrades in a sense, you know, 
so I am bound to listen to you out of old asso¬ 
ciation, if for no other reason.” 

They had reached an incline leading to the bank. 
He put out his hand to help her down the steep, 
slippery ground, but she passed on, proudly ignor¬ 
ing his aid. 

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Her 
silence was his opportunity. 

“Well, if you have renounced your idea of ques¬ 
tioning and speaking,” he said, “I may as well take 
up the part. Just now you threatened me, Anne. 
You told me I was in your hands. What do you 
suppose Colonel Lorrimer would say if to-morrow 
he heard from my lips the story of that old flirta¬ 
tion of ours? It is true he is an old, and sick man; 
true that he married your mother to save himself 
from ruin; still, he has some pride left, and not 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


49 


even your money could stand between you and his 
harsh judgment if he knew all.” 

Anne turned and faced him. They were sheltered 
from view by the boathouse, no one could see or 
hear them. She was white to the lips now. 

“Colonel Lorrimer, weak, sick, old, as you say,” 
she said, her voice almost drowned in her emotion, 
“has yet something in him despite all his follies, 
that makes him a man, not a cur. Take the story 
to him, tell him all, as you say, tell him of my cre¬ 
dulity, my mistaken madness, tell him of your lies, 
your deceit, your dishonesty. Let him know all 
there is to know—the story of a girl who was a fool, 
and a man who was a scoundrel. Somehow, Will, 
I do not think I fear that Colonel Lorrimer should 
know the true story of our old acquaintance.” 

Herrick’s eyes met hers, those large, strange, 
dark eyes that had in them now that cold, hard look 
as of a mask, where before they had been so full of 
fire, of passionate devotion. The memory of those 
days when those eyes had looked into his, eloquent 
with love, came back to him now with a thrill. 

Anne had had a short reign it is true, but he had 
never utterly forgotten the extraordinary love she 
had lavished upon him, and though he never failed 
to applaud his wisdom in having cut short an ac¬ 
quaintance which had been fraught with so many 


50 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD EOVE. 

difficulties and dangers, still now and then Herrick 
had actually remembered Anne, and remembered 
her with a regret that was born solely of vanity. 
The gipsy blood in her veins had given her a touch 
of fire and attraction even when she had seemed to 
be poor, humble, insignificant; now in her costly 
setting of furs and velvet, with an air of hauteur 
and breeding which, if not quite genuine was very 
effective, Herrick had to confess that this attraction 
was stronger than before. 

It was like a dream to him to find himself looking 
on her again, and in so changed a guise. It was 
hard indeed to reconcile this brilliantly handsome 
woman, with all the environment and veneer of 
fashion about and upon her, with that handsome but 
plebeian and often shabby-looking girl whom he 
had sought SO' assiduously in his butterfly fashion 
some five years before, and once having won, had 
discarded. Anne had received his attentions coldly 
to begin with. She had been very young, and her 
natural disposition inclined to suspicion, but there 
was that about Herrick which could woo confidence 
from the most distrustful creature in the world. 
Gradually she grew to have faith in him, then, to 
love him. Had anyone told her she was destined to 
be used merely as an amusement by this handsome 
young spendthrift, she would have killed the slan¬ 
derer. 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 51 


She was more than an ordinary amusement to 
Herrick. She was a definite source of aid. It was 
Anne who stood between this slippery customer 
and her father’s wrath; it was Anne who, drawing 
her childhood’s savings from the bank, lent every, 
farthing to' the young scoundrel to meet other 
pressing liabilities. In those days there had been no 
knowledge in either her mind or her mother’s of the 
wealth that was to be theirs eventually. Certainly, 
Herrick had not the smallest inkling of the fortune 
which plain, hard-working, humble John Foss had 
managed to amass. It might have made a difference 
if he had known it (although marriage with Anne 
was the very last matter that would have ever 
dawned in his imagination), but that Anne should 
ever pass out of the sphere in which he had met her 
and take her place in his own world was something 
that would have seemed to him quite incompre¬ 
hensible. 

The severance from the girl had been naturally 
most unpleasant. He chose a good moment in 
which to cut himself adrift from her; her father 
was dying—he was so ill that Anne had to be with 
him night and day. In her sorrow she had looked 
to her lover, her betrothed husband to support her, 
and for support she had received a shameful and 
cruel blow. Herrick told her the truth, brutally. 


52 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 


“We have had a very pleasant friendship, but like 
other pleasant things, it must come to an end. I am 
stone-broke and besides, I am too young to dream 
of getting married. I mean to> knock about a bit 
before I settle down, if ever I do settle down; and 
when I do marry—well, I suppose I must choose 
someone in my own world. Of course, I thought 
you would know all that without waiting for me to 
tell it to you/’ he had said, in his careless, good- 
natured sort of way, and he had been perfectly 
sincere in the surprise that actuated this last phrase. 
Of course, he had never dreamed that Anne could 
have been so exceedingly foolish as to have im¬ 
agined any different termination. He remembered 
now how very amazed and annoyed he had been by 
her passionate tears and yearning, pleading words. 
It wa9 indeed curious to realize that this proud, 
scornful woman, could once have been that weak, 
loving, sorrowing girl. He did not digest what she 
said about Colonel Lorrimer very easily. Un¬ 
doubtedly Anne would suffer the most, but he 
would not go scot-free; and when he remembered 
that it was Hetta's father of whom they were speak¬ 
ing, he had a decidedly uncomfortable sensation. 
Purely and absolutely because of Anne's antago¬ 
nism he felt himself drawn towards Hettaas he never 
could have been under more normal circumstances. 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 53 


He forgot that she was penniless, he only knew that 
she was beginning to love him; that she was beauti¬ 
ful, innocent, high-born, and everything he most 
admired and desired. She took a place in his 
thoughts that surprised him. To his astonishment 
he was conscious of something like a thrill of fear 
lest Anne should carry her story to Hetta, instead of 
to Hetta’s father. He must at all hazard prevent 
that catastrophe. 

His trick of plausibility and his winning charm 
must be used to good purpose on this occasion. 
There must be friendship between himself and 
Anne, not enmity. He always preferred having a 
pretty woman for a friend, and once he had safely 
passed the present sharp-edged path between them, 
he had no doubt whatever that Anne would be per¬ 
fectly content to play any role he might set before 
her. He started his new tactic boldly. 

“Why should we quarrel and threaten, and use 
hard words to one another, Anne?” he said to her, 
in his most caressing manner. “Granted I have be¬ 
haved like a scoundrel to you, I was at least an 
honest one. You must see, looking back, that 
there was some excuse for me. Why, to begin with, 
I was hardly more than a boy in those old days, and 
a boy without a penny to bless himself with, too. 
Moreover, you know how I was tied up and bound 


54 NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD DOVE. 


about my rules and regulations; even as it is now, 
man as I am, I am still not a free agent. I came 
into a title and estate mortgaged up to the hilt, and 
all the expectations I have are to come to me from 
my Uncle George Tempest’s will, subject to his 
widow’s approval or disapproval, I—” 

Anne laughed a clear, cold, hard laugh. 

( “My dear friend,” she said, in an amused tone, 
“have I asked for your biography? Believe I have 
always known all I have ever wanted to know about 
you, and there is nothing new you can tell me.” 
She drew her cloak about her with a little shiver. 
She seemed as if she had passed some ru'bicon, in 
her thoughts, and had taken up a new position, for 
her manner had changed. “It is hardly warm 
enough to stand here; let us go and skate—a good 
spin will warm us.” 

Herrick stretched out his hand to pilot her to the 
ice, thence to the boathouse steps. This time she 
did not refuse his assistance. 

“So then we are friends, Anne—friends once 
again?” he asked her, in a half-tender whisper. 

She smiled that smile that disclosed her beautiful 
even teeth, but left her eyes unmoved. 

“Friendship with Sir William Herrick,” she said, 
quizzically. “Quel honneur! I hardly know 
whether I shall be able to live up to so high a posi¬ 
tion.” 


NOTHING SO DEAD AS A DEAD LOVE. 55 

“Don’t sneer!” Herrick said, as he knelt at her 
feet, and put on her skates. He looked up at her 
with the same sunny expression, the same devotion 
as he had given to Hetta earlier in the day. He was 
determined on carrying his way. Anne mystified 
him a little. She met him just a trifle too easily to 
convince him of the full value of his power; but he 
was so accustomed to success in all he undertook, 
he did not intend to let even the suggestion of fail¬ 
ure come to him now. In fact, as they crossed 
hands and swept over the polished surface of the 
ice, as he tightened his hold on Anne’s hand, and 
felt it thrill at his touch, as he saw her eyes melt 
a little into their old, beautiful softness beneath his 
gaze, his spirits rose. 

The game would be both easy and amusing, and 
Anne’s old loyalty and love would always stand be¬ 
tween him and annoyance. That there could be 
anything deeper for him than annoyance from any 
word or act of hers, or any other woman placed as 
she was, he never dreamed. In this he was destined 
to learn something, and the lesson was to come from 
Anne’s hands. 


CHAPTER IV. 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 

Hetta’s songs and playing lasted till the game of 
bezique came to an end, and the Colonel, confessing 
to unusual fatigue, declared his intention of going 
to bed. With her heart still unwrung with fear,Hetta 
would have accompanied him to his room, but Mrs. 
Tempest once again intervened. The girl had to 
be taught the task of self-repression, of patience, of 
self-abnegation where anxiety was concerned. 

With many delicate little words*, therefore, she 
managed to save the situation, and sent the tired 
man to rest with a feeling of gratitude he could 
not have expressed fully, save that it gave him more 
than a touch of happiness to see Hetta loved and 
cherished by this gracious, beautiful woman, at once 
her equal and her protector. 

So soon as the door had closed on Colonel Lor- 
rimer, Mrs. Tempest had a suggestion to make. 

“What if we wrap ourselves up and walk down 
to the lake, Hetta?” she asked brightly. “Don’t you 
think it would be a delightful idea? It is really such 
a glorious night we ought to take advantage of it, 

( 56 ) 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


57 


and for myself, I want to have as much country 
walking and air as possible, for back to town I shall 
have to fly before very long/’ 

Hetta’s face had flushed and brightened, now it 
fell again. 

“Oh! you are not going to leave us for a long, 
long time yet/’ she said eagerly. 

Mrs. Tempest smiled and stroked her cheek. 

“You may be sure we shall stay as long as we 
can, but I must be back in London on business 
shortly, and Will is overdue at Herrickburne. As 
soon as he is settled there, you must come with your 
father and pay a long visit to us. I shall preside 
over Will’s establishment most of the year, but I 
shall still keep on my little London home. I am 
really very fond of London,” Judith added. 

Noting with admiration, and some relief, what an 
admirable command of herself Hetta had, Mrs. 
Tempest had made this speech purposely. She 
wanted to prepare the girl for the approaching 
separation from Herrick. She saw that Hetta had 
received her words with a startled and pained air, 
which went far, too far indeed, for her own satis¬ 
faction, to confirm Judith in the theory she had 
arrived at about Herrick’s dangerous fascination 
for the girl. 

“Oh! Will! Will!” she sighed to herself, as she 
went down to join Hetta. 


58 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


The walk through the moonlight, seemed to bring 
back the girl’s gaiety. She laughed and chatted 
more freely than she had yet done with Judith 
Tempest; her arm clung to the older woman’s arm 
in confidential affection. 

“I was a little afraid of you,” she confessed to 
Judith, as they progressed down the avenue. “I 
told Sir William I was, and he only laughed. But 
then you are so tall and so queenly. You make me 
feel so insignificant. I am so glad to know you like 
me!” Hetta finished in her pretty childlike fashion. 

Judith Tempest caressed her hand. 

“I mean to love you very much,” she said, and 
she said it warmly. 

Hetta sighed. 

“May I write to you sometimes?” she asked wist¬ 
fully. “I love writing letters. I wanted to write to 
Anne while she was away, but she did not care 
about it.” 

“And so you are really fond of Miss Foster?” 
Mrs. Tempest said in answer to this. 

Hetta paused an instant before answering. 

“I don’t know if I am actually fond of Anne,” 
she then said, musingly; “I respect her, and I trust 
her. Perhaps that may sound strange, but I mean 
I feel Anne is so strong, so wise, that she gives me 
a sense of reliance. She is very straightforward and 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


59 


plain spoken, and I like her for that. She never 
minds telling everyone her father was John Foss, the 
tailor, and that she and her mother were obliged 
by his will to change their names to Foster, and to 
do all sorts of things he wanted, before they in¬ 
herited his money. Of course,” Hetta said a mo¬ 
ment later, “of course, I think Mrs. Lorrimer is 
really more kind and generous than Anne, but 
then she is different altogether. Anne feels the 
necessity of keeping up her position so much. Why, 
do you know, she is always studying even now! 
She has just come back from six weeks in Paris; 
she goes there constantly just to' keep herself up in 
the language, and she works so hard at music too. 
I gave her some lessons about a year ago, but she 
wants more than I can teach her,” Hetta finished, 
rather quaintly. 

Mrs. Tempest was silent awhile, as they pushed 
their way to the lake, whose lamps gleamed like so 
many colored flowers from the distance. Somehow 
Judith could not yield to Anne’s charm. She had 
watched Miss Foster carefully throughout dinner, 
and she had been more convinced in her first im¬ 
pression of the young woman. Anne’s whole man¬ 
ner was unsympathetic to Mrs. Tempest. In this, 
perhaps, a certain amount of prejudice played a 
part, for Miss Foster was geniality itself to the 


60 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


stately woman of society who was guest at Turret 
Teignton, but that first speech of Anne’s, when 
they had met, remained and rankled in Judith Tem¬ 
pest’s mind, and now Hetta’s warm words about her 
stepsister revealed something that the child herself 
had no consciousness of. 

The lake was reached at last. Hetta’s cheeks 
were flushed and her eyes shining. Her small feet 
moved restlessly, as though longing to be flying 
once more over the ice. 

The crowd had thinned to about a dozen people. 
Hetta pointed out to Mrs. Tempest some of the 
local celebrities. 

“There’s our organist; you heard him in church 
last Sunday. He skates just like he plays, doesn’t 
he?” she laughed. “And that girl in red is the 
daughter of the big grocer in the High street. She 
is ever so much admired, and, I must say, she has 
really a lovely complexion. None of the Tarporley 
party are here now. I suppose they have another 
dance on to-night. I wonder if you will admire 
Tarporley as much as Turret Teignton? It is much 
bigger; and I know,” Hetta said, chattering on al¬ 
most heedlessly, so intent was she in searching with 
her bright eyes for a certain tall, handsome young 
man—“I know,” she added, “that the Beresfords 
think their house i's ever so much grander than 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


61 


ours; only we are older than they are, so that makes 
it even, doesn’t it?” 

A skater came out of the distance and flashed 
past them. 

“There is that strange young man, we noticed 
this afternoon,” Hetta said, watching him with ap¬ 
probation. “He skates magnificently—so easily; 
I suppose he must be staying with the Beresfords; 
they always have a house full.” 

The skater skimmed past them again. He 
glanced casually at Mrs. Tempest’s tall figure and 
Hetta’s slender one as he went by. 

“I wonder where Anne is?” Hetta said, after a 
little pause. 

“Let us see if we can find her.” 

Mrs. Tempest stepped down on the ice as she 
made this suggestion. 

“Does Mias Foster skate well?” she asked, as 
Hetta, gleefully assenting, walked her briskly to¬ 
wards the other end of the lake. 

“I don’t know, but I expect she does. Anne 
never attempts anything she cannot do.” Hetta’s 
voice changed a little here. “I quite forgot to tell 
Anne to be sure not to go too near the bottom cor¬ 
ner,” she said, and her words conveyed some anxi¬ 
ety. 

Mrs. Tempest looked at her quickly. 


62 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


“Why, is it dangerous there?” she asked. 

Hetta nodded her head. 

“The gardeners break the ice every morning to 
let the ducks have a chance of a swim. It freezes 
over again, but of course it is always thin.” 

“Will will have told Miss Foster; he knows all the 
corners of the lake by now.” 

Hetta nodded her head, and her face flushed as 
she remembered all the little dives and turns and 
corners she had taken Herrick to see. It hurt her 
to think he should be skating with anyone else. 
She almost wished she had not yielded to the temp¬ 
tation of the walk. Suddenly her heart leaped into 
life and joyousness again. 

Herrick was coming towards them, flying along 
as though on some urgent errand. The light of the 
moon was full in his face; he did not recognize who 
was in front of him till Hetta spoke his name. 

He wheeled round into a momentary pause. 

“I am going to fetch some of the men and a rope; 
there is a man in down there;” he was breathless and 
was gone again in an instant. 

Hetta clutched Mrs. Tempest’s arm. 

“Oh! and it is so deep there! Oh! let us go'— 
let us go. I am frightened!” 

Without waiting for Mrs. Tempest, she sped over 
the ice, and in an incredibly short time was at the 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


63 


place where her anxiety had feared danger for 
Anne. 

Miss Foster was one of the group gathered on the 
bank. She was wet from her waist downwards, 
and she looked as if she had had a shock, but her 
thoughts were all bent on directing the movement 
of a ladder, that was being pushed eagerly by those 
about her across the chasm of water, to where a 
man’s figure was struggling, now fighting and 
clinging to the broken ice that snapped as his weight 
rested on it, now disappearing into the dark deep 
water. 

Hetta gave a cry of horror. She clasped her 
hands to her heart. 

“Oh! Anne—Anne, he will die! he is exhausted!” 
she cried; but even as she said it, Herrick had 
skated passed her like a flash of lightning, had shot 
the rope into the water where by some marvellous 
chance it lashed itself about the ladder, then flinging 
himself down, and bidding the gardeners hold tight 
to the rope (with all his faults, Herrick was not a 
physical coward), he crawled to the very edge of 
the chasm, and as the half drowned man rose to the 
surface, he clutched the outstretched hands, and 
by mere force of muscle, held him until another 
man, clambering along the ladder, came to the 


rescue. 


64 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


Hetta, with distraught eyes and pallid face, had 
been wrapped about by Judith Tempest’s arms. 

As she saw that the rescue was complete, she 
gave a gasping sigh, and reeled against Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest as though fainting. The older woman her¬ 
self was in a state of agitation hardly less. Her 
feelings were of sharp relief, and then of pride in 
her boy’s courage and skill. Then she had to think 
of Anne, who, utterly exhausted, had sunk on the 
bank, white and trembling, while the insensible and 
dripping form of the stranger who had so gallantly 
rushed to her rescue, and had so nearly sacrificed 
his life in his gallantry, was carried slowly down to 
the keeper’s small cottage, which stood happily 
close at hand. 

Both Mrs. Tempest and Hetta were full of tender 
care and anxiety about Anne, who, however, soon 
rose mistress of her fright, and though trembling in 
every limb, declared she should walk home and rid 
herself of her wet garments in her own room. 

She had started briskly before either Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest or Hetta could remonstrate, and seeing this 
they turned their attention to the other and more 
anxious case. 

At the keeper’s door they were met by Herrick. 

“He’s all right now,” Sir William said, and he 
gave Hetta a smile. “Poor chap! it has been a near 


ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 


65 


squeak. Don’t be frightened, Miss Lorrimer, he is 
as right as rain. He may have a bit of a cold, but 
nothing more. He is conscious, and they will look 
after him. I shall stay here, and then I can report 
to you what the doctor says.” 

Hetta smiled up at him faintly. She would 'have 
given everying she possessed to have been able to 
clasp his hand, and calling him by an endearing 
name, as Mrs. Tempest did, praise him for his brave 
rescue. She had to turn away without a word, for 
her heart was too full for words, and she knew as 
she hastened back to the house with Mrs. Tempest 
that she would never find words to express, even to 
herself, how dear William Herrick was to her. 
Little did Hetta think in this moment that that 
humble keeper’s roof sheltered the two men who 
were destined to play the two great parts in her 
future life! 


CHAPTER V. 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 

Miss Foster reported herself as being none the 
worse for her accident, when everybody was as¬ 
sembled for breakfast the next morning. Hetta 
had been early to knock at her stepsister’s door and 
inquire eagerly how she was. Though Hetta had 
flown as fast as she could, the night before, to try 
and catch up Anne, Miss Foster, despite the cling¬ 
ing weight of her wet skirts, had managed to reach 
the house and her own room before Hetta could 
approach her, and once there she was invisible. 

“I am not ill. I have everything I want. I am 
going to have a hot bath, and shall be as right as 
possible. Don’t fuss about me, Hetta,” she had 
said half irritably, from behind her closed door; 
“and, above all, don’t go and alarm mother, she 
will stay here half the night if you do!” 

Hetta went away feeling repulsed. She had 
wanted to hear all about everything, and above all 
she had wanted to hear Anne speak her warm ap¬ 
preciation for Herrick’s cleverness and courage. 
She had said “good-night” to Mrs. Tempest, look- 
fee) 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


67 


ing wistfully, but in vain, for Sir William, to clasp 
his hand just once before retiring, but Herrick had 
lingered down at the keeper’s cottage till the doctor, 
who had been summoned from the village, had giv¬ 
en his verdict upon the man who had so nearly 
passed out of life altogether. 

The next morning, too, at breakfast time, when 
Anne had to answer so many questions and suffer 
her mother’s cries and exclamations of horrified 
alarm over what had happened, Sir William was not 
present. 

The butler informed Hetta, who presided prettily 
at one end of the table, that Sir William had gone 
again to see the invalid. 

“He said he would be back soon, Miss,” the 
servant said. 

Anne, who looked pale and certainly less bril¬ 
liantly handsome in the morning light, declared her 
intention of walking to enquire personally after the 
man who had rushed so gallantly to her rescue. 

“He came so quickly no one had time to warn 
him of the danger,” she said to Mrs. Tempest. She 
was very charming with this kinswoman of Her¬ 
rick’s; in her heart Anne had determined to win 
her way into Judith Tempest’s good opinion. “Had 
I been left to myself, I should have scrambled out, 
as I did without more than a little inconvenience; I 


68 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


happened to be so close to the bank, fortunately 
when I went in; otherwise,” Anne gave a little 
laugh—“otherwise I have no doubt it would have 
been‘all up with me.” 

Hetta gave a little murmured cry, and Mrs. Lor- 
rimer, who was fidgetting too much about her 
daughter’s escape to eat her usual share of break¬ 
fast, suddenly broke into loud weeping at these 
words. 

It was Hetta who went to comfort her, not Anne. 
Colonel Lorrimer very rarely left his room for 
breakfast. Hetta, whose fears about him had re¬ 
vived with the morning light, had been to take him 
his coffee and roll a good hour before. The girl 
had lost some of her sunny beauty after a night of 
such unusual excitement, yet Judith Tempest found 
her sweeter this morning than she had ever found 
her before, more especially when she hovered so af¬ 
fectionately about her stepmother, consoling fier 
in a dozen different ways. 

Anne’s only sympathy had been a sharp speech. 

“Please don’t be foolish, mother,” she had said 
with a frown, as the tears had come. 

“Oh, can I ’elp it?” sobbed poor Mrs. Lorrimer. 
“You speak of being drowned just as easy as though 
it were nothink, and me never to have known noth¬ 
ink about it, too!” 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


'Anne smiled faintly. There were times when her 
mother’s manners and method of speech were pos¬ 
itive torture to her, and never more so than now, 
when every instant marked more surely the chasm 
that separated her only parent from the world of 
refinement and social culture, as personified in 
Judith Tempest. Anne had progressed a long way 
past the standpoint of the ordinary parvenu; she 
was in many ways a superior, an extraordinary na¬ 
ture; she had learned enough to know that her best 
role was to play blindness and deafness to her 
mother’s peculiarities, and she carried this role 
through so successfully that Mrs. Lorrimer had no 
conception of the real place she held in her daugh¬ 
ter’s feelings. She was devoted to Anne, her pride 
in her child was illimitable. All through the week 
that Mrs. Tempest had been at Turret Teignton, 
she had heard nothing but words of love and pride 
for the absent Anne from her hostess. 

That Mrs. Lorrimer also had a large share of love 
to bestow on Hetta was very evident, but no one 
approached, or would ever approach Anne in her 
heart. Her girl’s beauty and cleverness, the way 
in which Anne bore her present changed and, in a 
sense, lofty position, was something her mother 
could never grow accustomed to—something that 
seemed more wonderful each day. 


70 


A MOTHER!/Y CREATURE. 


“Colonel Lorrimer should ha’ made my Anne his 
wife, not me, ma’am,” she had said to Mrs. Tempest, 
in one of 'her moments of enthusiasm and confi¬ 
dence. “When you see Anne, you’ll agree with me, 
I’m sure. What for ever the Colonel could ha! been 
thinking about to choose me and not my girl, I 
don’t know.” 

“Colonel Lorrimer recognized in you what he 
needed more than anything else—a kind and loving 
nature, to be a mother to Hetta,” Judith had an¬ 
swered, in her gentle way, and her words had been 
received beamingly. There was nothing that gave 
poor common Margaret Lorrimer such complete 
satisfaction as the thought that she played some 
useful part in her present grandeur. More particu¬ 
larly was she gratified to think that she could act 
the mother to Hetta, dainty, winsome, delicate, 
flower-like Hetta. 

She did not admire Hetta in the sense that she 
admired Anne’s physique, but she never could for¬ 
get that Hetta’s young mother had been a woman 
of title, the daughter of an Earl, and that not only 
constituted a tremendous matter to her eyes, but 
seemed in a sense to endow her with an element 
of that greatness which surrounded all titled folk. 

She fulfilled exactly the part Mrs. Tempest de¬ 
scribed to her. She took as much care of Hetta as 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


71 


she would of some great treasure. If the girl were 
pale, or languid, or less merry than usual, then Mrs. 
Lorrimer would never give 'her a moment’s peace; 
even carrying her protective care so far sometimes 
as to put the girl to bed and mount guard over her 
till the cold or slight indisposition was at an end. 

She would have taken the same care of Colonel 
Lorrimer, but, truth to tell, the poor woman was a 
trifle frightened of the man she had married; he 
awed her quite unconsciously, and she often won¬ 
dered how it was she had had the courage to become 
his wife at all. If it had not been for Anne and 
Anne’s energy in the matter, the marriage would 
never have been. Naturally enough, there were 
times when Mrs. Lorrimer yearned for the old sim¬ 
ple days of her early life. She had had a tremendous 
struggle for existence in those days, but she had 
been very happy, till fortune had come to her hus¬ 
band so lavishly, and with fortune all those plans and 
schemes for social elevation which he himself had 
never lived to support, but which Anne had carried 
on so thoroughly and so successfully. 

The wealth bequeathed by the tailor to his wife 
and daughter was not merely the outcome of trade; 
speculation and careful investment had worked the 
oracle, and certainly neither Anne nor her mother 
had been prepared for the fortune that passed into 


72 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


their hands. There were several conditions attached 
to the will of John Foss. He decreed that his fam¬ 
ily were to cease instantly the use of the name of 
Foss, and change it to Foster, (hence the reason 
why William Herrick had never connected the 
thought of Anne with Hetta’s stepsister). They 
were to spend money freely upon themselves, and 
mingle in, so far as was possible, the world of fashion 
and rank. Both were to be permitted to claim 
their respective incomes for all their lives, provided 
they endeavored to carry that wealth to higher 
social channels, these channels to be opened up to 
them by marriage; but, should either the wife or 
daughter contract a humble marriage, then all their 
fortune was to pass from them. 

When chance brought Henry Lorrimer into in¬ 
tercourse with the Fosters, Anne immediately saw 
in this worn, distinguished man a future for her 
mother. She might have married him herself, for it 
was really Anne who had attracted Colonel Lor¬ 
rimer by her clever conversation; but Anne had 
other schemes for her own future, and as there 
would be considerably assisted by connection with 
such a family as the Lorrimers, she never ceased 
her manoeuvres till her mother had become Henry 
Lorrimer’s wife and mistress of Turret Teignton. 

It was, as Colonel Lorrimer had told Mrs. Tern- 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


73 


pest, Anne’s money that bought back the beautiful 
old house from the hands of the mortgagees, and 
thus, though her mother held first place of honor, 
it was in reality Anne who ruled the entire estab¬ 
lishment, and who had control over everything con¬ 
nected with Colonel Lorrimer and his daughter. 
The pension Colonel Lorrimer drew, served as his 
private income, and supplied all Hetta’s simple 
wants. Mrs. Lorrimer would have lavished money 
on both, but Henry Lorrimer felt his position al¬ 
ready too keenly to accept more than was neces¬ 
sary, while Hetta as yet had no knowledge of the 
value or need of money, and therefore could easily 
refuse her stepmother’s generosity. A few pres¬ 
ents the girl accepted naturally enough, and the 
string of pearls which she wore day and night 
round her pretty throat had been a gift from Mrs. 
Lorrimer. 

Anne gave nothing. She spent money gener¬ 
ously upon herself; her dress expenditure alone was 
very great. She was fond of jewelry, and would 
wear the most costly ornaments in the daytime, 
and wear them, as Mrs. Tempest was fain to con¬ 
fess to herself, without a touch of vulgarity. Strings 
of shining stones, old brooches, glittering bangles, 
all seemed to fit in with Anne’s dark bizarre beauty, 
to give the necessary accompaniment of color to her 
clear dark skin. 


74 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


Judith Tempest found her eyes straying frequent¬ 
ly towards Anne on this morning after her return 
home. The woman (for girl she was no longer) 
interested her more each hour that passed. She did 
not find Anne an easy character to read; beside 
Hetta’s transparent girlhood the other was a mys¬ 
tery altogether. Nothing could have been more 
striking than the difference between these two in¬ 
mates of one home, and Mrs. Tempest felt herself 
gradually drifting, despite Hetta’s genuine expres¬ 
sion of affection for her stepsister., into closer sym¬ 
pathy with the curious sort of fear for his girl’s 
future that Colonel Lorrimer had expressed to her 
on the ice the day before. 

And yet there was nothing in Anne’s manner to 
Hetta that gave her occasion to imagine that Miss 
Foster disliked her stepsister; on the contrary, Mrs. 
Tempest found Anne’s attitude towards Hetta both 
natural and sincere. There was no gush of affection 
between them, but they seemed to understand one 
another, and sparred and chatted in the same 
friendly fashion that ordinary sisters might have 
done. If Anne’s sneer came for anybody, it came 
when most irritated by her mother. She was much 
annoyed, Judith saw that instantly, by her mother’s 
outburst of ungrammatical agitation and weeping, 
and she frowned just the slightest degree in the 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


75 


world when she saw Hetta fussing about Mrs. Lor- 
rimer. 

“I always tell Hetta and my mother they spoil 
one another/’ she said, with her brilliant smile, to 
Mrs. Tempest. 

Hetta smiled too, but she looked wistful. 

“Anne is so much stronger and braver than we 
are/’ she said. “Imagine what I should be like this 
morning if I had had her experience of last night. 
Why, I should be quaking with fright now.” 

She colored up very prettily as she finished speak¬ 
ing, not from What she had said, but because at that 
moment Herrick had entered the room. The color 
deepened and lingered after he had clasped her 
hand in greeting, and the girl’s loveliness in this 
moment drew both Anne’s and Judith Tempest’s 
eyes towards her. To the latter there was both 
sadness and confirmation in that speaking flush of 
shy delight at Herrick’s approach; to Anne it came 
as a revelation, a sharp and unexpected fact, one 
that could not be fully grasped in this the first 
moment of its birth. 

Herrick was full of news about the young man 
down at the keeper’s cottage. He had greeted Mrs. 
Lorrimer, Anne, and Mrs. Tempest with his usual 
graceful courtesy. There was a shade of affection 
in his manner to his kinswoman. 


76 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


"He will be on his legs again to-morrow; to-day 
he is as weak as a rat,” he said, as he was questioned 
eagerly by Mrs. Lorrimer and Hetta. “We have 
found out that he comes from Tarporley; he is 
staying with the Beresfords.” 

Anne corrected him. 

“Not as a guest,” she said. “I got all sorts of 
information about this Mr. Dennison from my maid 
this morning. Servants’ information is generally 
reliable,” she added, with her faint smile. 

She was leaning back easily in her chair, watching 
Will Herrick with an inscrutable expression in her 
eyes. She had met him as unconcernedly as he 
had met her, and had replied to all his enquiries 
after her health with just the same amount of cour¬ 
teous make-believe of feeling as he displayed. She 
was, in fact, an amazement to Herrick, and, in the 
sense of being so absolutely at her ease, a discomfort 
also. 

“Do you really believe servants’ chatter?” he 
asked her, looking across at her with the sunny ex¬ 
pression which lit up his face, and made him so ir¬ 
resistible. 

“In a case like this, yes,” Anne answered. “I 
naturally, too, was interested in knowing all there 
was to know about a man who had tried to do me 
such a service. It appears he is a steward, or a 
secretary, or a tutor at the Beresfords—I really 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


77 


could not determine which—anyhow, he is not a 
guest, or a friend of the house. ,, 

Herrick accepted the second cup of coffee Hetta 
proffered, with his heart apparently in his eyes. It 
irritated Mrs. Tempest beyond measure to see how 
much stronger his flirtatious inclination was this 
morning. 

“Well, he is an uncommonly good-looking chap, 
whatever he is; and a grateful one, too. I am com¬ 
missioned to thank you all most warmly for your 
interest and concern in him,” Herrick said, and 
then he put on his most captivating air, and ap¬ 
proached Mrs. Lorrimer. “I believe you must have 
begun to think I was going to stay here forever, but 
even I have some sense of limit. I have enjoyed 
myself so very much, Mrs. Lorrimer, and am so 
grieved to leave you, but—” 

Mrs. Lorrimer only grasped the meaning of the 
last few words. 

“Oh! you’re never going to leave us now, Sir 
William!” she said, in dismay. “Surely you ain’t 
goin’ now, when my Anne’s just come home?” 

Sir William did not smile, it was Anne who did 
this. 

“My mother considers me a loadstone of at¬ 
traction, you see,” she said, lightly; then before any¬ 
one could speak, she rose, walked round to her 
mother, and just touched her on the shoulder. 


78 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


“Sir William may rob us of himself, but at least 
we hope, do we not, mother? that he will not rob us 
of Mrs. Tempest just yet awhile!” 

Poor Mrs. Lorrimer looked hopelessly from one 
to another; fine phrases were as so much Greek to 
her. She recognized that Anne intended her to say 
something nice, however, so she rose to the occa¬ 
sion in her best manner. 

“Mrs. Tempest knows she’s ’earty welcome to 
stay as long as she likes, don’t you ma’am?” she 
said warmly, and Mrs. Tempest responded as warm¬ 
ly to this most sincere though homely expression. 

“I must, however, unfortunately go to town with 
Will. There is any amount of business he must do, 
and he will not do it unless I am there to see after 
him. We will come back very soon, dear Mrs. 
Lorrimer.” 

The departure was arranged forthwith. Anne 
was full of hints and suggestions as to trains, etc. 
She was absolutely the mistress of the house in this 
moment, for her mother could do nothing but look 
hopelessly disappointed (and this sudden departure 
of her guests was a disappointment to her), and 
Hetta had somehow managed to slip away. Both 
Anne and Herrick had seen her go, and in a very 
little while Anne’s dark eyes saw that Herrick had 
the full intention of following the girl and speaking 
to her. A red-hot flame of color dyed Anne’s 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


79 


cheeks for an instant, and a suffocating sensation 
rushed from her heart to her throat. She hated 
him as she had never known she could hate till this 
moment. It was his absolute indifference to her, 
his absolute disregard of her feelings; his defiance, 
as it were, to her enmity, that roused this hatred 
now. She saw in this flirtation with Hetta some¬ 
thing more than a flirtation. She felt convinced 
now that Herrick would not meet her with half¬ 
measures, and that even at a cost to himself he 
would be prepared to carry out a certain plan of 
action, if by doing so he could impress her with the 
fact that he, figuratively, snapped his fingers at her 
and at the past. 

It was a horrible moment for Anne—a moment 
in which mortification covered up and killed for¬ 
ever the few remaining germs of a love that once 
had been so beautiful, so unselfish, so complete. 
Mrs. Tempest noticed that she grew very pale as 
they went into the hall to give their final directions. 

“I think it is perhaps a kindness to you, Miss 
Foster, that Will and I should take ourselves off 
to-day/’ she said, in her kindliest way, “for you 
seem to me to have overrated your strength. I 
am sure you would have been wiser to have stayed 
in bed for some hours at least.” 

Anne murmured something pretty, but in truth 
she felt she should be glad when Herrick was gone. 


80 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


She had lived through these last five years only 
for the moment when they should come face to 
face; she had followed each step of his career, had 
made herself acquainted with his position, had seen 
and realized that this position gave him, in a sense, 
into her power, and yet, now that this meeting had 
come, she had only tasted a new bitterness; she had 
only been repulsed a second time; she had a double 
failure to lock away in her heart. For this was the 
worst sting of all, the knowledge that Herrick 
knew he could defy her, knew that she would sacri¬ 
fice anything to preserve her old story a secret now 
and always. The soul of her father was in Anne— 
she yearned to climb higher and higher the social 
ladder; the joy of her money was the power it could 
give her to buy herself some lofty and abiding place 
in society. 

To be Herrick’s wife had been Anne’s dream from 
the first moment she had learned of her wealth; and 
for this she had carried forward her mother’s mar¬ 
riage, for this she had spent hundreds on having 
herself educated, for this she had already refused 
more than one excellent husband; and with such a 
fortune at her back, she had determined, when the 
moment came, this ambition would be easily accom¬ 
plished. Her meeting with Herrick had been well 
thought out. She had known of his acquaintance 
with her stepfather long before he appeared at 


A MOTHERLY CREATURE. 


81 


Turret Teignton, and she had purposely absented 
herself from her home till he had been there some 
time. 

She had calculated upon taking him at a disad¬ 
vantage, and this she certainly had done. She had 
calculated upon alarming him by her suggestion of 
carrying the truth to Colonel Lorrimer, and through 
him to Judith Tempest, whose good opinion it was 
so necessary for Herrick to hold, and this also 
she had done for a moment, but she had not cal¬ 
culated upon Herrick's quick realization of the pov¬ 
erty of her attack, nor had she calculated upon find¬ 
ing in Hetta a rival who was the most dangerous 
she could possibly have had. 

Hetta had no money, but Herrick, with his future 
inheritance from Judith Tempest SO' sure, could 
afford now to dispense with money if he so chose, 
and Anne did not blind herself to the fact that when 
a man of William Herrick’s calibre and social posi¬ 
tion contemplates marriage, he prefers a wife of his 
own rank, one for whom no excuses would be nec¬ 
essary either on her parents’ or her own account. 

Such a girl was Hetta, and as Anne hurriedly 
reckoned up her stepsister’s chances of success, and 
the position in general, she felt she must have a little 
time to herself in which to ponder over all that had 
happened, and prepare herself for what lay in the 
immediate future. 


CHAPTER VI. 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 

Anne was not destined to have even this small 
satisfaction. The future was precipitated into the 
present before she had barely realized the danger 
that menaced her determined desire. It was Hetta 
who gave her the news. Hetta transformed into a 
new creature. Anne had gone up to Mrs. Tempest’s 
room to offer her assistance, and was passing down 
the stairs intent on arranging everything comfort¬ 
ably for the departure when she came upon Hetta. 

The girl was standing in the corridor outside her 
father’s room, her eyes were marvellously beautiful; 
there was not much color in her cheeks, but yet 
there seemed to be a glow of happiness over the 
young face. She was evidently excited to the verge 
of nervousness. 

As Anne approached her, so tall and queen-like 
in her straight, clinging velvet gown (Anne always 
affected velvet for the house), Hetta turned to her 
with a little cry, and running forward, she nestled 
up to her stepsister. 

“Oh ! Anne—Anne,” she said, in a whisper. 

( 82 ) 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


83 


A curious chill sensation came over Anne’s heart. 
She drew herself back from Hetta’s embrace. 

“What is it? What is the matter?” she asked 
coldly. “Is your father ill?” 

The words seemed to cast a cloud over the radi¬ 
ance of Hetta’s eyes for a moment. 

“Daddy told me he was quite well this morning 
—'better than he had been for ever SO' long,” she 
answered eagerly, and wistfully, too. “I am afraid I 
—I was not thinking about daddy just now,” Hetta 
said frankly, and she blushed deeply as she spoke. 

The heart of Anne Foster contracted sharply. In 
those few words, she read all; she knew she was 
conquered. Before she could speak, Hetta had 
come back to her, and had kissed her. 

“Oh! Anne,” she said, simply; “Oh! Anne, I 
am so very, very happy!” 

Anne’s dark eyes looked into hers. It cost her a 
tremendous effort to open her lips at all, but con¬ 
quered as she was, and with such inconceivable 
cruelty and bitterness, she was strong enough to 
scatter her weakness. 

“Suppose you tell me all you have to tell,” she 
said, and her tone was the one Hetta was most ac¬ 
customed to hear from her; it was decisive, and not 
too sympathetic. 

Hetta blushed again. 


84 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


“It is so wonderful—I—I cannot believe it yet. 
Anne—he loves me! He came and told me so just 
now; and then he said he must speak to father, 
and—and he is there now. I—I am waiting—I 
feel half afraid. Do you think father will be angry, 
Anne? I—I mean—oh, I don’t really know what I 
do mean, I feel so bewildered. I never, never 
dreamed he could care for me, he is so handsome, 
and so clever.” 

And in girlish fashion, Hetta poured out all the 
warm, joyous flood of her heart. Anne and she had 
moved unconsciously down the corridor till they 
came to the top of the stairs. Hetta paused there; 
she wanted to go back and meet her lover as he left 
her father’s room, but she kept Anne standing 
awhile, as she talked on. 

She was so young, so innocent, so simple in her 
happiness, there was something pathetic about her; 
but Anne saw no pathos, she only saw before her 
one of whom she had been jealous, definitely and 
indefinitely, ever since they had come together, and 
who now had rqbbed her of all she most desired. 
Hetta’s social superiority had hurt Anne from the 
first; the fact that Hetta was the granddaughter of 
an Earl had been a perpetual thorn in her flesh; she 
had envied Hetta so many things, her innocent 
youth, her luxurious childhood, her beauty, and that 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


85 


nameless attraction which no money nor education 
could give. 

Hetta’s parentage was just the parentage that 
Anne would have sacrificed half her wealth to pos¬ 
sess. She had felt her heart harden against Colonel 
Lorrimer’s little girl before even she and Hetta had 
met. It was the jealous hardness that Anne felt 
for all girls who possessed that which she had never, 
and could never possess. 

‘'Had I been reared as she was reared, Will Her¬ 
rick would never have dared to have broken my 
heart, and left me with a laugh and an insult on his 
lips.” This had been Anne’s first bitter thought 
when she and her mother had come to Turret 
Teignton four years before, and had been intro¬ 
duced to the slender slip of a girl who, despite her 
few years (Hetta was only fourteen) ruled her 
father’s house. 

And this bitterness rested and deepened in Anne’s 
heart as the time went by. Child as she was, Hetta 
was her superior in everything—in education, in 
appearance, in birth, in manner, in social position, 
in all save money, and Anne found it difficult to for¬ 
give this superiority. 

In the days before the tailor’s daughter had 
drifted into the path of William Herrick, there had 
been no girl more generous, more just and kind- 
hearted than Anne Foss, but sorrow and humiliation 


86 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


had seared the kindliness from Anne Foster’s na¬ 
ture; .where she had been generous, she became 
selfish; where just, prejudiced, and even cruel, and 
above all, she had become resentfully jealous and 
embittered. 

Had such a trial as now fell upon her, come to her 
in those old days, Anne would not have hesitated to 
have spoken the truth and have stood between this 
innocent girl and a life that could not be anything 
but misery, when the glamor had been swept away 
and Herrick’s true self revealed in all its harsh 
lines. But Anne had now no thought of what was 
just, no remembrance of what was right; she had no 
pity for Hetta and her simple joy, her absolute 
faith. She saw only her own defeat—a defeat made 
doubly bitter, doubly horrible because it came to 
her through Hetta’s hands; and in this moment the 
jealousy that had always played an active part in 
her thoughts where Hetta was concerned, turned 
into absolute hatred. It was with difficulty she 
could control herself sufficiently to pass away from 
Hetta now and say nothing oi the hot anguish, the 
fierce mortification that filled her breast. But the 
habit of self-repression was strong with Anne, and 
this power came to her aid now. 

She left Hetta waiting tremblingly and blushingly 
for Herrick to come forth from his interview with 
her father, and she went about her household tasks 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


87 


with the same cold, haughty air that made her 
feared, admired, and disliked by all who served. 

Mrs. Tempest had arranged to leave for London 
by an afternoon train. The whole morning, there¬ 
fore, was to be disposed of, and Anne’s heart fal¬ 
tered as she counted the hours she must suffer be¬ 
fore Herrick would go-; moreover, there was always 
the fear that he would not go at all now, under the 
changed circumstances. 

From her window she had caught sight of Her¬ 
rick and Hetta walking briskly away together to¬ 
wards the ice; no- need for Anne to question now. 
The whole of Hetta’s pretty person seemed envel¬ 
oped in joyo-usness. It was scarcely likely that 
Colonel Lorrimer would have found anything to ob¬ 
ject to in such a marriage for his girl. Indeed he 
must have been suddenly comforted and overjoyed 
at the thought that his darling’s future would be so 
well cared for, so- secured before death closed his 
eyes. Anne laughed bitterly to herself as she saw 
them disappear from the avenue of trees. 

‘They will be married immediately,” she said to 
herself. “What is to come between them? This is 
the very marriage for him and for her, too. A 
charming arrangement! The best thing that could 
happen! How clearly I hear everyone saying this!” 
She winced and turned away from- her window 
sharply. For a moment she was not strong; she had 


88 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


to lean for support against a chair. It seemed so 
strange to her to have to say “farewell” to all her 
plans, all her hopes. 

When time had passed and Herrick had not mar¬ 
ried, she had said to herself, with a sort of exultant 
fierceness,, that some power had decreed that he 
should be free for her, that as he had taken her 
youth so his later years should be given to her as 
a sort of recompense. The idea, strange as it was, 
had grown into a sort of fact with her. There was 
an element of gipsy blood in her veins, and with 
this element all those touches of wayward fancy, of 
prophecy, of hot passionate unrestraint in her emo¬ 
tions that belong to the wandering people whose 
distant kinswoman she was. 

When her weakness had passed, Anne dressed 
herself and prepared to go out. As she came down 
the stairs she found Colonel Lorrimer and Mrs. 
Tempest sitting in the hall talking earnestly to¬ 
gether. Anne caught the delight on the man’s face, 
and a disturbed, not to say sorrowful expression, 
on the woman’s. She paused to ask after her step¬ 
father’s health, who in his turn was full of solici¬ 
tude about her. 

“You are going down to inquire for this Mr. 
Dennison, Anne?” he queried. “Please convey to 
him my grateful thanks for coming to your rescue. 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


89 


I should like to see him here,” the Colonel added, 
half wistfully, half nervously. 

Anne smiled. 

“I was about to invite him,” she said. She 
smiled at Mrs. Tempest. “Do you feel equal to the 
walk?” 

Judith Tempest smiled back faintly. 

“We are busy discussing a great matter. Have 
you seen Hetta? Do you know the news?” Mrs. 
Tempest’s voice hurried a little as she asked this. 

“I have seen Hetta, and I know the news,” Anne 
said, evenly. Then she nodded her head to Colonel 
Lorrimer. “I congratulate you,” she said, without 
a trace of warmth in her voice; “it is a most desir¬ 
able arrangement. I think Sir William Herrick 
must have every qualification for making an excel¬ 
lent husband.” 

She passed out into the frosty sunshine as she 
spoke. 

Colonel Lorrimer looked after her with a slight 
frown. 

“I wish I could understand Anne,” he said, with 
a sigh. “Her manner always mystifies me!” 

“It is a manner that is cultivated, not natural, 
that is why, my dear friend,” Judith Tempest an¬ 
swered. 

She gave little attention to Anne in this moment. 
The news of Herrick’s unexpected proposal, and the 


90 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


swiftness with which all had been arranged, had 
left her bewildered. In this, the first moment of 
surprise, Judith hardly knew what her feelings were 
about the matter. She had been startled beyond 
measure, and though in a sense it could not but 
please her that Sir William should settle down, and 
especially have made a choice of so charming a girl 
as Hetta, yet there was an element of mystery, of 
haste, about this engagement which displeased and 
hurt her. She half feared that her few words of the 
afternoon before, might have occasioned this unex¬ 
pected action on Herrick’s part, and she feared 
wholly, that whatever motive Will might have had 
for asking Hetta to be his wife, that motive did not 
spring from pure, strong love. Colonel Lorrimer’s 
unfeigned delight in his child’s happiness was at 
once a solace and an additional hurt to Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest. 

She could not but rejoice at her old friend’s 
pleasure, but that vague misgiving as to Herrick’s 
stability, that curious doubt of him that would force 
itself into her tenderest thoughts, came too prom¬ 
inently into her mind now to let her join heartily in 
with Henry Lorrimer’s satisfaction. She desired 
and yet shirked a private chat with Sir William. He 
had met her eye in his usual frank manner when he 
had announced his engagement, but, true woman as 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


01 


she was, Judith had scented a subtle change in him, 
a kind of new manner which disturbed her more 
than she was fully aware of at first. Her welcome 
to Hetta had been sincere, she had clasped the girl 
in her arms with the tender passion of a mother. 

“God send you all happiness, little Hetta,” she 
had whispered, and there had been something in¬ 
describably touching in the way she had put the 
girl’s small hand into Herrick’s. 

He was not blind to the tears in her eyes, nor to 
the meaning of her emotion, but he carried the 
matter off in his usual manner. 

“Come and skate, little deserter,” he had said to 
Hetta, with his sunniest smile. “You have to make 
up for the time lost last night. We will have a 
long morning together before I leave you.” 

Judith Tempest had watched them gO' as Anne 
had watched them, but with what different feelings! 
Then she had sought and found Colonel Lorrimer, 
and while they discussed the future, the newly be¬ 
trothed had made their way to> the lake, and hand 
in hand had flown round the surface of the ice 
like a couple of joyous birds. 

Anne, walking slowly to the keeper’s cottage, 
caught glimpses of them through the leafless trees. 
She was too numbed and weak from the combined 
efforts of her accident the night before, and her 


92 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


bitter excitement of the morning, to be her usual 
strong self, and once, as she paused in her walk, 
and stood lonely and deserted in the clear, cold, 
winter’s day, a sob broke from her throat. She 
hated where once she had loved, yet she had loved 
so greatly that tears came to her readily as she 
dwelt upon the wanton way in which her love had 
been played with, and the cruelty with which she 
had been cast on one side. 

But as the sound of Hetta’s laughter floated to 
her ears, she started as if she had been stung, and 
with a sort of fury against herself she brushed her 
tears away, and walked hurriedly on. 

“Laughter to-day, tears and anguish to-morrow,” 
she said to herself, with a laugh that was miserable 
enough. “Will supplies the happiness to-day. Will 
he be strong enough to keep trouble always at a 
distance? He has taught me my lesson surely 
enough, but has he counted the cost, I wonder? 
Does he venture to think that there will never be a 
reckoning with me? Poor fool! If he only stops 
to think, he must see that as things are now, I am 
threefold more dangerous. Women with pasts are 
always bores, so he told me last night. Well, I 
have my past, and I mean to be something more 
than a bore. I believe, with my heart and soul, 
there will come my day, when he will confess this 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


93 


to me himself. Meanwhile he has Hetta for a bur¬ 
den and his freedom is gone. Poor Will! I could 
almost find it in my heart to pity you.” 

The keeper’s cottage was just before her now, 
and the keeper himself came to meet her. 

Anne roused herself from her bitter thoughts, to 
play the role she loved best—the role of Lady 
Bountiful, of a great personage, of one whose right 
it was to command. 

“Tell Mr. Dennison it is our desire he should 
come up to Turret Teignton, as soon as he is able,” 
she said to the man, in her grandest way. 

Her voice was clear and loud; it penetrated to 
the small front room of the cottage, where Gavin 
Dennison was lying with closed eyes. He opened 
these same eyes as the keeper came in. 

“I heard your message,” he said, smiling very 
faintly. “It was Miss Lorrimer who spoke?” 

The keeper shook his head, with a touch of scorn 
in his expression. 

“Miss Hetta? Bless your heart, no, sir. Miss 
Hetta never speaks like that. That was Miss Foster, 
Miss Hetta’s stepsister. Quite a different person 
in her estimation, and in mine.” 

“You love this little Miss Hetta?” Dennison 
asked, after a slight pause. He had her before his 
eyes as he asked the question—a lovely, graceful 


94 


LOVE’S FOOLISH YOUNG DREAM. 


young creature with sweet eyes and laughing lips. 
He had not known till this moment how wonderfully 
Hetta had visioned herself on his memory. “She 
looks a happy child/’ he said, thoughtfully, half 
to himself, and then something strange came into 
his eyes, as the keeper gave him Hetta’s wonderful 
news, for the love story had spread throughout the 
estate in a very short time. 

“So that is her fate,” he mused, half dreamily to 
himself. “I had imagined her to be quite a child, 
and now she is promised in marriage. I feel sorry 
to say farewell to my little dream maiden. I have 
grown to know her somehow so well in these winter 
days. I daresay she would be amazed if she could 
be told how well I have known her. I feel almost 
glad now we have never spoken. She has been one 
of my many dream companions, and after all, it is 
our dreams that make our real life. Without such 
simple happiness, where should I have been, and 
how should I have progressed so far?” 

His eyes were closed, and he breathed heavily. 
The keeper seeing this, stole away. 

“He’s sleeping,” he whispered to his wife. 

But sleep, and the peace of sleep, was something 
that came but rarely to still the monotonous sorrow 
of Gavin Dennison’s thoughts. 


CHAPTER VII. 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 

Anne Foster’s definition of Gavin Dennison’s 
social position had been found correct; her maid’s 
gossip had been founded on fact. Mr. Dennison 
was emphatically not a guest at Tarporley, the 
neighboring estate to Turret Teignton; he filled the 
dual post of tutor and secretary in the house of the 
Beresfords; people whose wealth was greater even 
than that possessed by Anne and her mother, and 
who counted themselves the highest in the partic¬ 
ular county in which they lived. It was a favorite 
trick of Anne Foster’s to sneer at the Beresford 
family. 

“Why do you let that woman ride roughshod 
over you?” she had asked once of Hetta, in her im¬ 
perious way. 

Hetta had laughed. 

“Does she ride roughshod? I didn’t know it, 
Anne.” 

Anne had frowned. 

“I know far more of the Beresfords than they 
imagine!” had been her answer. “Of course, I am 

( 95 ) 


96 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


perfectly well aware Mrs. Beresford can give herself 
as many airs as she likes where I am concerned, 
but you are a different matter. Were I the grand¬ 
daughter of Lord Norchester, I would crush all 
women of this class!” 

Hetta had only laughed. These moods of Anne’s 
were never quite comprehensible. 

“I don’t think I am very proud of my grand¬ 
father Norchester,” she had answered simply 
enough; “he is a very selfish and horrid old man, 
who cares for nothing or no one but himself; and 
besides, I don’t want to crush anybody—why should 
I?” Hetta had asked in her straightforward manner. 
“Of course, I know Mrs. Beresford is rather pom¬ 
pous, but she has a kind heart, I am sure, and does 
any amount of good, Anne.” 

To such an argument as this Anne had noanswer. 
Hetta always irritated her by her complete indif¬ 
ference to matters of this kind. If Anne did not 
know the girl to> be absolutely sincere, she would 
have dismissed Hetta’s remarks about her Norches¬ 
ter relations as a pose; but there was no* possibility 
of accusing Hetta of this, just as there was no pos¬ 
sibility of letting her understand why she, Anne, 
had such reason for disliking the rich woman who 
reigned at Tarporley. There was too much kinship 
between the nature of herself and this neighbor ever 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


97 


to encourage Anne to press a friendship with the 
Beresfords. 

She never went to- Tarporley, though Hetta had 
always been welcome there, and gradually her in¬ 
fluence worked to bring about a separation between 
her home circle and this other. Hetta, in fact, had 
never been to pay a visit to Tarporley since Den¬ 
nison had been established there, yet he knew her 
well. She had flashed across his eyes almost the 
first time he had found himself with a free hour, 
and had spent that hour in wandering about the 
neighborhood; and after that, whenever he had one 
of his rare holidays, and was allowed a brief while 
for rest and communion with his thoughts, he had 
frequently had his walk brightened and charmed 
by a glimpse of this lovely girl, either walking 
surrounded by dogs, or seated in her little governess 
cart, driving through the muddy lanes with a gaiety 
that was infectious. 

In time, in fact, he grew to look for her with a 
thrill of pleasure and interest that came at no- other 
time; and if he did not see her, it seemed to him 
as if the walk had been monotonous and sad. 

From his pupil, a wild harum-scarum boy, he 
heard all there was to hear about Hetta, her father, 
and her home surrounding, and somehow a touch of 
pity mingled in with his thoughts of this beautiful 
girl, when he remembered all the bitter things that 


98 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


were said about Anne Foster and her influence. 
He discounted a great deal of what he heard, still 
enough remained to cast a cloud over the brightness 
of that young life. It was from the father’s face, 
rather than from the girl’s, that Dennison drew 
conclusions that the introduction of the Foster ele¬ 
ment at Turret Teignton had its disadvantages. 

From where he sat in church, Dennison had a full 
view of the Lorrimer party, and truth to say, he 
spent most of the sermon hour in studying Colonel 
Lorrimer, his daughter, and his stepdaughter. It 
was impossible for any man to deny Anne’s claim 
to admiration. Gavin Dennison was not slow to 
give this tribute of admiration to her dark pictur¬ 
esque beauty, but she jarred on him nevertheless, 
and he saw in her every movement that suggestion 
of assumed superiority which made her so disliked 
at Tarporley. 

Hetta, in contrast to her stepsister, had at times 
a pale, subdued look. In church especially she 
seemed to lose her fresh, bright youth, but what 
she lost in gaiety, she gained in sweetness. Gavin 
knew every change and depth of color in her lovely 
eyes. It rested him to look at her; he liked her 
better in her thoughtful mood, than even in her 
happy, sunshiny likeness, that vision of gladsome 
youth that could make the lanes brilliant as with 
color as she raced past him. 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


99 


He was, by nature, a dreamer of dreams, and he 
had, unconsciously, begun weaving out dreams for 
this girl’s future, as he had sat leaning back in 
the Beresford pew, his arms folded over his breast, 
his tired, handsome eyes half closed as in sleep. 

The Sunday before his accident, a new subject 
had appeared to take some place in these dreams. 
Everyone in the little village church had their eyes 
drawn to Mrs. Tempest’s tall, aristocratic form and 
still charming face, and all the hearts of the young 
women had been stirred into a flutter by the ap¬ 
pearance of Sir William Herrick, so smart in his 
fur-lined coat and knot of violets in his button¬ 
hole. 

Herrick had walked into church behind Hetta’s 
slender little figure, perfectly well aware that every 
woman’s eye in the building was upon him, and 
was expressive of approval. He looked his hand¬ 
somest on this occasion, and the tutor from Tar- 
porley was one of the first to recognize this man’s 
wonderful beauty (for beauty was the proper word 
to apply to such a physique, such a delightful ap¬ 
pearance as that possessed by Herrick). He found 
himself looking at this young man critically, 
thoughtfully. There could scarcely have been a 
day’s difference between them in the matter of age, 
yet what a mighty difference sorrow, want, and the 


L.ofC. 


100 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


bitterest mental pain, had built up between Gavin 
Dennison and all such men as William Herrick! 

“I feel as if I were his grandfather/’ Dennison 
had said to himself grimly. He had watched Her¬ 
rick’s delicate play of eyes upon Hetta, and a little 
pang had come. Somehow this had not been the 
companion his dreams had visioned for his dainty 
spirit of the lanes, yet the next instant he had felt 
the foolishness of this pang. Where in all the world 
could a fitter mate be found for that lovely little 
person, with the eyes of a dove and the smile of an 
angel, than this same young man? 

In the week that had followed, Dennison had had 
ample opportunity of noting how charmingly these 
two were mated, outwardly, at least. His pupil had 
cast learning to the winds, and had lived on the 
lake at Turret Teignton. When his mother would 
have remonstrated, the young individual had simply 
stolen out of the house in secret, and Dennison, 
being despatched to find him, always knew exactly 
where to look for the truant. 

“Pray try and keep Master Robert at home to¬ 
morrow, Mr. Dennison,” Mrs. Beresford said to 
her son’s tutor on each and every one of these oc¬ 
casions. 

And Beryl Beresford, the youngest daughter of 
the house, had always rushed to the rescue. 

“So long as the ice lasts, Bob will play truant, 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


101 


mother,” she had said. “Skating and Hetta Lor- 
rimer together are too much for him.” 

For Master Bob adored Hetta. 

“The only girl in the world worth talking to,” 
he declared to his tutor, as he perched himself on 
the rough bed in the keeper’s cottage the day fol¬ 
lowing the accident, and listened with glistening 
eyes to a full account of all that had occurred. 

“I knew something jolly would happen just when 
I was not about,” had been his first greeting to the 
invalid as he had dashed in. “By jingo! some 
chaps do have luck, and no mistake. Now I might 
have been on the ice a month and never have gone 
through once. Was it a queer sensation, Mr. Den¬ 
nison? Do you think I should have liked it?” 

Mr. Dennison had smiled faintly. Happily Bob’s 
visit had not taken place till the afternoon, when his 
strength was a little restored, but he was, neverthe¬ 
less, far from being equal to much excitement, 
though the boy’s breezy good-nature and sincere 
affection was welcome enough. 

“I don’t think you would have liked it much, 
Bob,” he answered, in his quiet, low voice. 

Bob, perched up on the end of the wooden bed, 
looked solemn awhile. 

“I met Hetta Lorrimer as I was coming here; 
she told me you were very nearly drowned. It 
wasn’t as bad as that, was it?” 


102 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


Mr. Dennison made no answer; he only smiled 
his faint, sad smile. 

“My goodness, wouldn’t there have been a howl 
up at home, if it had been me who had gone in in¬ 
stead of you,” the boy remarked next, quite heed¬ 
less and, indeed, unconscious that his frank words 
could carry a hurt to his listener. 

Gavin Dennison shut his eyes, and a little shiver 
passed through him. 

The old miserable cry of the futility of hope, of 
struggling life, rose up hotly in his heart with a 
suffocating pain. He turned on his pillow with a 
little moan. Bob looked at him in startled fashion. 

“I say, is your head bad? Look here. I’ve got 
something for you. Hetta told me I was to> bring 
them to you. There’s a bottle of stuff you smell, 
you know what I mean.” Bob was diving indus¬ 
triously in -his pockets while he 'talked. “And 
some eau-de-Cologne, and a flask of brandy. Hetta 
was going to leave them for you herself, but when 
she found I was coming here, she asked me to 
bring them. I think,” Master Robert added, med¬ 
itatively, “I think she wanted to go off somewhere 
by herself and have a cry. I saw her eyes full of 
tears and all red. They’ve just told me she is going 
to marry that long-legged chap, Herrick, who was 
down here this week. I call it beastly of Hetta to 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


103 


go and marry anybody, she’s such a jolly girl; and 
now the moment she gets engaged, she begins to 
cry. Girls are a rummy lot, I must say,” the young 
philosopher observed at the end. 

Dennison took the little bottle of salts, a dainty 
thing mounted in silver; he seemed tO' feel it had 
come from the girl’s own table, that it was some¬ 
thing she had used constantly. His heart was 
deeply touched by her remembrance of him, and 
he had a little pang of sorrow as he heard of her 
tears. Tears should have been far, far away from 
her for many a year. He lay with his hand clasped 
about the little silver bottle, while Bob put the 
other things on the table and chatted on in -his brisk 
way. 

“Hetta’s young man has gone up to town to-day 
with that tall Mrs. Tempest. My eye, isn’t she tall 
just! I suppose that’s why Hetta is crying.” Bob 
did not trouble to sort out his sentences; he left 
this to the skill and imagination of his listeners. 
He got tired of talking after -awhile, and rushed 
away to have his afternoon of skating. 

“Mother wants to know when you are coming 
back,” he cried, as he went, and when Dennison 
murmured “to-morrow,” the boy had put on a wise 
expression: “You’ll be jolly fit for anything to¬ 
morrow, won’t you?” he said, and then, seeing 


104 GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 

that his tutor's eyes were closed, once again he 
stole away. 

On the morrow, white and weak, and ill as he 
was, Gavin Dennison went back to his duties. “II 
faut vivre,” he said to himself, as he dressed with 
the utmost difficulty. “Even though I have nothing 
to live for, I have life in me, and I must think of 
the future. If I lose this place, there is nothing 
but the old road of starvation, and misery, and 
hopeless striving to face, and Mrs. Beresford is not 
one to be defrauded of an hour of my service." 

The keeper, a kindly creature, would have urged 
another day in bed. 

“You ain't fit to move, and that's the truth, sir," 
he said bluntly. 

“It is wonderful what we can do when we are 
obliged to do it," Dennison answered the man. 

A cart was waiting for him, and aided by the 
keeper, Dennison got in slowly. 

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that Sir William Her¬ 
rick, him as is going to marry our little Miss Hetta, 
left this card for you, sir, when he come yesterday 
morning." 

Dennison took the card; on it Herrick had pen¬ 
ciled a few words. 

“Am always to be found at this address; look me 
up when you are in town." 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


105 


The face of the man flushed a little. It was a 
long time since even so simple a courtesy as this 
had been paid him. He slipped the card in his 
inner pocket. In all probability Herrick and he 
would never meet again, still, he would keep the 
card as a souvenir of one who had saved his life. 

As he was being driven slowly away from the 
precincts of Turret Teignton, the cart was brought 
to a standstill at one point, and Colonel Lorrimer, 
with Hetta, approached him. 

Dennison tried to rise from his seat, but the 
Colonel prevented this. 

“You are leaving us, Mr. Dennison?” he said, in 
his charming way. “Is this wise? Are you quite 
fit? My daughter and I were on our way to see you 
to ask you to come and be our guest for a few days. 
Hetta, I think you must try some persuasion with 
Mr. Dennison.” 

Hetta blushed though she had given very little 
attention, and certainly no thought to Dennison, 
often as she had seen him of late; there was some¬ 
thing in the eyes of the man that touched her inex¬ 
pressibly, and brought the color to her cheeks. 

“Please come and stay with us till you are quite 
better,” she said simply, shyly. 

Dennison’s face had borrowed some of her color. 

‘Tthank you,” he answered her, hurriedly, his 


106 


GAVIN DENNISON, TUTOR. 


manner no whit less courteous or charming than 
her father’s. “It is impossible, Miss Lorrimer. I 
must return to my duties. I am really quite better; 
to-morrow I shall have forgotten all about my ac¬ 
cident. I—I am very grateful to you; believe me, I 
cannot thank you as I should.” 

“If it is duty, we must say nothing more,” Col¬ 
onel Lorrimer observed, gently. He stretched out 
his hand. “Nevertheless our invitation holds good 
for all time, Mr. Dennison. We shall look to see 
you at Turret Teignton very shortly.” 

Hetta’s little hand went out to him also, and their 
fingers were clasped for an instant. He did not hear 
the words she said, for his brain was in a whirl; but 
her smile remained with him to haunt him and to 
give a sense of renewed life to his heart as he drove 
onward through the lanes to Tarporley. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE) LAUNCHING OF A NF)W CRAFT. 

The weeks that slipped away between the event¬ 
ful day of her engagement and her marriage, were 
perhaps the very happiest that Hetta Lorrimer had 
ever known even in a childhood that had been ex¬ 
ceptionally happy; assuredly they were weeks of 
such delight as were never destined to come into 
her life again. Years later, Hetta, the woman, 
tasted the sweetness of a happiness only reached by 
passing through the gray valley of desolation and 
sorrow; but the gladsomeness, the delicious thrill 
that ran through her girlhood’s joy, was something 
she could never, never touch again. 

She expanded into a blossom of great beauty in 
these weeks, most of which were spent apart from 
her lover, and in which life, to ordinary eyes, would 
have seemed to run just as it had run in other times. 
If the girl had been questioned, she would have 
been forced to confess that she was almost as happy 
when Herrick was not near, as on the days when he 
came to spend twenty-four hours at Turret Teign- 
ton. The hours she spent alone dwelling on the 

( 107 ) 


108 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


unexpected change that had come into her life, and 
of the future that stretched immediately ahead, were 
more sweet to' her than she could tell even to her¬ 
self. Th®. engagement, sudden as it was, seemed 
destined to run very smoothly. Nothing could have 
exceeded Mrs. Lorrimer’s kindness and generosity. 
She took the matter of Hetta’s trousseau into her 
own hands, at least so< far as the expense was con¬ 
cerned; for choice of all the dainty garments she 
fell back upon Mrs. Tempest. 

“I’m not quite sure what’s right and what’s 
wrong in these things for a young lady like our 
’Etta. I’ll be much obliged to you, ma’am, if you’ll 
just give the orders for all as is necessary, and mind 
she’s not to> want for no single thing,” the good 
woman said, eagerly. "Colonel Lorrimer, he’ll give 
some jewels what belonged to ’Etta’s mother. There 
ain’t many left, but there’s a few, and they’ll do up 
nicely, I’m told.” 

Mrs. Tempest, who found her way frequently to 
Turret Teignton, promised all the help in her pow¬ 
er. She did everything there was to do for Hetta 
with a heart that was full of love for the girl. It 
seemed to her extraordinary that she could have 
misjudged Hetta so much in the beginning. Each 
day revealed more surely what a wealth of sweet¬ 
ness, of sympathy, of tenderness was hidden in the 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


109 


fresh young heart of Hetta. It was a heart capable 
of the greatest sacrifices, and alas! of the greatest 
suffering, and Judith Tempest could not shut away 
from her the conviction that both these qualities 
would be tested to their utmost in the marriage with 
Herrick. 

Though the engagement was a “fait accompli/' 
though Hetta's trousseau was set in hand, and wed¬ 
ding presents began to make their appearance, Mrs. 
Tempest could not comprehend how or why it was 
that Herrick had chosen a wife so suddenly, and 
more particularly why he had chosen Hetta for that 
wife. 

They had had many a chat on his problematical 
wife in the past, and Hetta was just the exact op¬ 
posite of all that he had declared he most desired. 
First and foremost he had insisted always that when 
he married (a vague and far distant event, appar¬ 
ently,) he should marry a woman, not a girl. 

“I want a woman of sense, and tact, and some 
knowledge of the world, not a simple, foolish young 
creature who will never be able to walk across the 
road without holding on to my hand. Girls are very 
nice to flirt with, not to marry," he had been wont 
to say in that bright, good-humored manner of his. 
“Oh, no, I shall never marry a girl, Aunt Judith." 

And now behold him about to marry a girl who 


110 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


was more girlish than most, who in her unworldli¬ 
ness, her innocence, her youth, was a mere child, 
just the very last creature in the world to suit his 
ideas of a wife! 

Judith Tempest had, in fact, tried to postpone the 
marriage for a year, but in this sensible plan she 
was foiled by Herrick himself and by Colonel Lor- 
rimer, whose premature age and weakness seemed 
to have slipped from him a little since the knowl¬ 
edge that his child’s future was settled had come to 
him. Neither men were inclined for a long en¬ 
gagement. 

“You have been preaching domesticity at me for 
ages. Now, I am going to please you at last,” Her¬ 
rick answered her, gaily, when she had half sug¬ 
gested the following year for the marriage. 

“Do not let there be a delay,” Colonel Lorrimer 
pleaded, wistfully. “Heaven knows if I shall be 
alive next year, dear friend; and I want to die 
knowing my bimbo is safe.” 

This last argument was the strongest for the 
woman to combat; moreover, it came to her by de¬ 
grees that as she was so decidedly in the minority 
in what she urged, that it would be better to cease 
her counsel. 

She had half expected support from Mrs. Lor¬ 
rimer, and from Anne, in the matter of prolonging 
the engagement, but both disappointed her. 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


Ill 


“I married my poor John when I were younger 
nor ’Etta; it’s a good thing for folk to start their 
life together when they’re young, then they grow 
to know one another’s faults,” the older woman 
said, in her homely fashion. 

Anne had seemed to ponder the question, sitting 
bending forward to look into the fire, her long fin¬ 
gers playing restlessly with a necklace of strange 
colored stones she wore round her neck. 

“You think a long engagement a wise thing?” 
she queried, when Judith Tempest had said to her 
what was uppermost in her mind. 

“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest had answered hurriedly; “but Hetta is so 
young.” 

“She is nearly nineteen,” Anne said, her voice 
cold, though her lips had that faint, peculiar smile 
upon them. “I think I am of my mother’s opinion, 
do you know, Mrs. Tempest. People should begin 
their married life together when they are young. 
Hetta has been treated all this time as a child, but 
she is, in reality, a young woman, and no doubt in a 
very little while she will fall into a right position. 
She will have such a helpful, sympathetic compan¬ 
ion in Sir William, I don’t think you need fear for 
her future.” 

Mrs. Tempest flushed a little at these words. 


112 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


They were said very simply, with a touch of more 
warmth and kindliness than was noticeable, as a 
rule, in Anne’s voice, yet they hurt the listener. It 
was the doubt that lurked in her own heart that sug¬ 
gested that pain, not a doubt of Anne. In fact, it 
would never have entered into Mrs. Tempest’s mind 
to doubt Anne’s sincerity in this matter. A vague 
idea had flashed across her in the very beginning 
that Miss Foster might perchance feel some jealousy 
that her stepsister should marry before her, and 
marry so well, but this feeling had not lingered, and 
save on this occasion, when she directly approached 
Anne on the subject, Mrs. Tempest could not re¬ 
member any incident that showed Miss Foster to 
regard the marriage in any other light than that of 
being satisfactory. Anne did not take much marked 
interest in the trousseau buying; she treated the 
matter with that air of indifference, of cultivated 
hauteur, which always brought a faint smile to 
Judith Tempest’s lip. She interfered in no way 
with her mother’s generosity to Hetta, but she did 
not, seemingly, intend to follow her mother’s ex¬ 
ample. 

“I shall give you something pretty to wear,” she 
said to Hetta, when they were alone once. “Are 
you superstitious? Do you object to opals?” 

Hetta shook her head, with a laugh. 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


113 


“I don’t believe in luck, or ill-luck. I would go 
to sea on a Friday, sit down thirteen to dinner, and 
I always go under a ladder when there is a ladder 
handy to go under, as Bobbie Beresford would tes¬ 
tify, I am sure.” 

Anne looked at her a little curiously. She her¬ 
self was a mass of small superstitions. They were 
as much a part of herself as her pride, her hot, jeal¬ 
ous nature, her strong will. If she had not had 
this superstition threaded in with her every thought, 
she would not have been placed as she was to-day; 
if she had not built so- blindly on the working of 
fate to bring her even with Herrick, to give her the 
position of his wife, she would have been spared the 
deep mortification, the bitter, impotent anger of 
this moment. To hear Hetta declare so lightly and 
so truthfully that she held no creed in those things 
which Anne believed in so entirely, was to add an¬ 
other touch to- the sullen jealousy and hatred that 
lay like a canker in the heart of the elder girl. 
Strange to say, Anne’s feeling towards Hetta as 
Herrick’s future wife was absolutely bare of that 
personal jealousy which one slighted woman very 
naturally may feel for a favored rival. She was 
jealous of Hetta for all the social sensation that 
would follow on her marriage, but where 
Herrick was concerned Anne had no other 


114 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


feeling than a semi-contemptuous pity for 
Hetta. She might and would have felt 
quite differently if the thought that Herrick 
had grown even temporarily infatuated with 
her stepsister had come to her, but knowing, as she 
did, that the marriage had been brought about by 
the man in a moment of savage intention to show 
her how puny he held her to be, and how little he 
cared for her or any threat she might utter, Anne 
could not permit herself to regard Hetta in this 
connection without some contempt and some pity, 
too. The flame of her love for Herrick was now 
utterly extinguished. If he imagined to punish her 
through her love, he failed entirely. Punished Anne 
was, most assuredly, but Herrick’s vanity would 
have tasted some of her mortification could he harve 
known how low was the place he held in the heart of 
this woman who once had adored him, who had 
given him such a faithful, unquestioning love. This 
was something he was destined to learn in the fu¬ 
ture, but for the moment it was a hidden knowl¬ 
edge. 

Anne’s demeanor during the engagement was, 
nevertheless, not exactly a pleasant experience for 
Herrick. If she had indulged in some violent out¬ 
burst, if she had lost her head for an instant, he 
would have felt he knew better how to deal with 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 115 


her. But Anne gave no sign of being passionate, 
resentful, or anything but languidly indifferent. 

Sir William came to Turret Teignton as seldom 
as was possible. He had, of course, imagined that 
Anne would follow his example, and go away imme¬ 
diately she heard of his engagement, but Anne had 
evidently not the slightest intention of going away. 
She was always in her place when he rushed down 
to spend a few hours with his fiancee, and exceed¬ 
ingly annoying her presence was to Herrick. 

She made him uncomfortable because he did not 
know what her next move might be. The Anne 
of old would never have comported herself as did 
this tall, picturesque woman, who spoke so little, 
and seemed to regard the whole world with an in¬ 
difference which was almost exasperating. 

That she assumed this indifference so well under 
the existing circumstances made it in no degree 
better for Herrick to understand. Besides, he ob¬ 
jected to being made to adopt, even by an inference, 
the attitude of a man who had been first a brute, and 
afterwards a fool; for if Anne had met him first in 
the spirit in which she now met him, there would 
have been no violent scene, and certainly there 
would have been no engagement with Hetta. 

It is a matter that goes without saying that Wil¬ 
liam Herrick regretted his forthcoming marriage. 


116 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


He abhorred all ties and fetters, and had he been 
true to his nature, he would have remained a bach¬ 
elor all his life. He had a decided admiration for 
Hetta; he found her a charming little thing, and 
her deep, pure love for him was pleasant. Until 
Anne’s absolute indifference had commenced tO' 
chafe him, he had also had the satisfaction of feel¬ 
ing that in Hetta he had found the one source for 
really punishing her stepsister, and the cruelty that 
lurked beneath his perpetual good-humor had de¬ 
manded that Anne should be punished; and though 
this satisfaction lingered to a certain extent, it grad¬ 
ually grew less as the days and weeks went by. 

Making business an excuse, Sir William paid as 
few visits as possible to Turret Teignton. He con¬ 
fided his real excuse to Mrs. Tempest. He told her 
he could not endure meeting Anne Foster. 

“I shall not allow Hetta to have this girl about 
us when we are married,” he said on one occasion, 
and Judith was surprised to note how irritably he 
spoke. 

“I cannot quite follow you in your objection to 
Miss Foster,” she answered him, in her gentle way. 
“Of course, I know she is slightly pretentious, but 
somehow she touches me a little. She has the look 
in those big dark eyes of hers as though she had 
known an infinity of suffering. She is curious, cer- 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 117 


tainly,” Mrs. Tempest had added, thoughtfully; she 
found herself frequently pondering over Anne; “yet 
she attracts me, Will. I wonder, with her beauty, 
for she is beautiful, you know, and her money, she 
has not married before this!” 

“Oh, she aims high,” Herrick said, with a sneer. 
“Nothing less than a duke, I suppose, for the suc¬ 
cessful tailor’s daughter. Well, you may admire her 
as much as you like; I can’t follow your example, 
and I shall speak quite frankly to Hetta about the 
matter.” 

When the day of the wedding drew nearer, a 
sort of idea came into Herrick’s mind to have a 
quiet interview with Anne, and to thus gauge the 
workings of her mind. 

“Seems to me as if she were saving herself up 
for some tremendous explosion. This calm is all 
bunkum ; she must break down sooner or later. I 
hope to heaven she is not promising herself the 
delight of a scene in the church, or something 
theatrical of that sort.” 

To this thought Anne gave a very direct answer. 
Two days before the wedding she had her boxes 
packed, and announced her departure. 

“I hope you won’t mind,” she said to Hetta, when 
she gave the news. “The fact is, Lady Macgregor, 
with whom I was staying in Paris the other day, has 


118 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 

written asking me to go with her to Monte Carlo. 
She starts immediately, so as I want to travel with 
her, I have to leave to-day. Your wedding is so 
exceedingly quiet that one person more or less will 
not matter.” 

Hetta was both hurt and disappointed, and said 
so in her frank way. 

“I am sure Will will be very sorry, too,” she 
added, with her ready blush at the mention of her 
lover’s name. 

Anne only smiled, and passed on her way. Her 
departure caused her mother much perturbation, 
and annoyed Colonel Lorrimer in a slight degree. 

“Anne is always so odd, she never can do things 
like other people,” he said, irritably, to Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest, who had fallen naturally enough, by reason 
of beautiful ready sympathy, into the post of gen¬ 
eral confidente to the household. 

Mrs. Tempest herself had been surprised by 
Anne’s move. 

“I was thinking of asking you to come and spend 
a week or so with me in town, Miss Foster,” she 
said, with her pretty courtesy, when Anne went to 
bid her farewell. “I shall feel a little dull after all 
this excitement, with Will away, and I should have 
been charmed to have had your companionship.” 

Anne’s pale face flushed. Such an invitation was 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 119 


very pleasing to her, not only because she knew it 
would be displeasing to Herrick, but because Mrs. 
Tempest belonged to a social circle within which 
she had not as yet made a single step. 

“If you will carry the invitation on for a week 
or so, I shall be delighted to accept it. I do not 
know whether I am an amusing companion,” Anne 
had said, with her faint smile; “but if you will for¬ 
give all my faults, perhaps we shall be happy to¬ 
gether.” 

After this she had gone into the carriage, and had 
been driven away before Herrick had arrived from 
town with a few smart people who had expressed 
a desire to be at his wedding. 

Hetta’s marriage was to be simplicity itself. Her 
bridesmaids were only three in number, two culled 
from her relations, and one from the Beresford girls. 

Master Robert was much annoyed at the fact that 
no part was assigned him in the ceremony. 

“I call it downright mean of Hetta, when we 
have been such chums. Why, she and me,” gram¬ 
mar was an unknown quality with Bob, “have been 
having no end of good times together, as you 
know, even since she’s been engaged, and now she 
goes and gets married without me. Beastly, I call 
it!” 

“You should have been a girl, then you could 


120 THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 


have been a bridesmaid,” Dennison said in answer 
to this tirade. He had recovered the effects of his 
immersion in the water, and was equal to any 
amount of physical exertion now; nevertheless he 
had a worn, tired look in his face, and his whole 
manner was one of great mental oppression. Not 
even his pupil’s energetic presence seemed to rouse 
him, and Bob could not understand what was the 
matter with his tutor. On the day of Hetta’s mar¬ 
riage, Master Robert was granted a whole holiday. 

“You know you are invited, too; so you’ll come 
with me, won’t you, Mr. Dennison?” he said, as he 
dashed into his tutor’s room, glorious in a white 
starched waistcoat and a flower in his buttonhole. 

Gavin Dennison shook his head with a smile. 

“Weddings and I are very far apart, Bob,” he 
answered. “You will have to tell me all about it. 
I am going off for a long tramp—take care of your¬ 
self, and don’t eat too much cake, my boy.” 

Bob looked indignant for an instant, and then 
he had flashed away. His mother’s voice was call¬ 
ing; the carriage was at the door; his sister, in her 
bridesmaid’s finery, was impatient to be gone . 

Dennison watched the carriage roll down the 
avenue with eyes that were full of thought—of 
deep, troubled thought. He sat reading through 
some correspondence for over an hour, then he took 


THE LAUNCHING OF A NEW CRAFT. 121 

his cap and stick and went out into the spring¬ 
decked lanes. The air of this March day was mild 
and gracious; the heavy frost had been followed by 
weather more customary in June than in winter, 
and the hedgerows showed a feathering of green 
that matched the balmy kiss of the wind in fresh¬ 
ness. Dennison lost a little of his constant oppres¬ 
sion as he walked along, and by and by, as he had 
drawn near, unconsciously, to Turret Teignton, the 
sound of church bells rang out on the sunny air and 
roused him to remembrance. It was the music 
of Hetta’s marriage bells he heard. Half reverently, 
he lifted his cap. “Heaven send her happiness,” 
he said to himself. How little did he guess in such 
a moment that the memory of this girl, that was so 
sweet and yet so vague with him, was destined in 
the future to be the one great motive power of his 
life. 


CHAPTER IX. 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 

Gavin Dennison had been engaged as tutor to 
young Robert Beresford through the recommenda¬ 
tion of a certain clergyman, under whom he had 
himself studied, and not so many years before. 

The Rev. John Prinsep had been the nearest ap¬ 
proach to a parent the young man had known. 
Back somewhere in the recesses of his memory, 
the lad Gavin could trace vague visionary figures 
that seemed to have belonged to some other life. 
It was a broader, grander, an altogether different 
life to the one he had led under the shabby, though 
most kindly roof of John Prinsep and his wife; 
but even if he had been inclined to question on this 
vague past, which was a matter that never entered 
his childish brain, Gavin would have found it dif¬ 
ficult to obtain information. Cheery Mrs. Prinsep 
was always so busy with domestic affairs, and her 
husband was always so occupied with his pupils 
(for Gavin was one of a dozen youths who lodged 
and studied at the Rectory), that to engage either of 
them in chatter was out of the question, 

( 122 ) 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


123 


At first, as has just been stated, Gavin had been 
so young, he had accepted everything concerning 
himself with a free heart and mind, but after awhile, 
when his mental vision expanded, when he saw the 
other boys rush off to their homes at holiday-times, 
excited and eager to be in the bosom of their re¬ 
spective families, Gavin began to see that there was 
something wanting in his lot, something that made 
him a creature apart and different to> all his young 
companions. Questions, too, began to be put to 
him in that inquisitorial fashion dear to the school¬ 
boy heart. 

“Was he never going away for a holiday?’* “Had 
he no' home?” “Where was his father—his mother?” 
“Was he an orphan?” In fact, what was he, and 
what was his proper status in the world now, and in 
the future? 

Gavin, a studious, clever boy, turned all these 
things over quietly in his mind (he must have been 
about ten when the full knowledge that there was 
something to learn about himself came to him), and 
after much pondering, without any satisfactory re¬ 
sult, he determined one fine day to take his trouble 
to Mrs. Prinsep. 

The rector’s wife was hard at work making apple 
preserve in the red-bricked old kitchen, when the 
boy came to her. He moved across to where she 


124 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


stood, a pretty, pathetic child’s figure, and when he 
reached her, he looked up at her with his soulful 
eyes a moment in silence. 

“Well, my bairn, tired of playing alone? Pull up 
your chair and sit here with me awhile,” said Mrs. 
Prinsep, who had had many a lad of her own, yet 
who could find love and tenderness to give to 
others; especially to this little creature who had 
come to her care when he had not even commenced 
to know a mother’s love. 

Gavin had pulled up a chair in his grave, quiet 
way, and had seated himself on it as directed. He 
had kept silence a long time, and then the words 
had come: 

“Mrs. Prinsep, will you tell me something? Have 
I got a home? Have I got a mother and a father, 
and any little brothers and sisters? The boys ask 
me such a lot of questions,” the lad had added, half 
apologetically, “and it is so awkward when you 
don’t know what to say.” 

Mrs. Prinsep had rubbed an apple with the cloth 
she held till its red skin shone like a mirror. Gav¬ 
in’s words, unexpected as they were in one sense, 
were expected in another. 

“He will want to know everything, mark my 
words,” was what she had said to her husband 
many a time when they talked over the case of the 
little creature who had endeared himself to them 



“ Have I got a father and mother ? ” 


































































• 


















HEARTS OF GOLD. 


125 


from the first. “Gavin is just one of those thought¬ 
ful boys, too, whom you can’t put off with a vague 
answer.” 

“There must be no vague answers,” the rector 
had said in his mild way. “I shall never hasten the 
time for telling the boy the truth about himself, 
but when he asks, however early it may be, he must 
be answered according to the facts.” 

Mrs. Prinsep had remembered these words very 
clearly as she stood rubbing the apple, and looking 
down tenderly at the small, aristocratic, little form, 
with its big, wistful eyes, and pretty lips. She was 
to tell him the truth, but it was a blunt, cruel truth 
to tell. She hardly knew how she was going to tell 
it, so she prevaricated a little. 

“Are you not content with us, Gavin lad?” she 
had asked him, with a laugh. “Do you want a new 
home?” 

Gavin had answered “No” in his quaint fashion. 
“I am very happy here,” he had said, thougntfully; 
“only I see now that as I am not your own little 
boy, I must have come from somewhere. Do yon 
mind telling me whose little boy I am?” 

Mrs. Prinsep’s eyes had had a mist of tears over 
them as she looked at him. She was thinking of a 
cold, hard-faced man who had stood for a brief 
while under her roof about eight years before, and 
had handed over to her the clinging infant who 


126 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


had been brought to the Rectory by a middle-aged 
woman, who had the same grim, forbidding air as 
her master. 

“All has been arranged with your husband,” this 
hard, cold man had said to Mrs. Prinsep. “The 
boy will remain with you; he will be provided for 
until he is old enough to earn his own living. He 
shall be called by his two first Christian names. 
When he comes to an age to question and to know, 
tell him the truth; tell him he belongs to no one, 
that his mother died dishonored, that father he has 
none. Advise him strongly not to try to get nearer 
to his story than this. Possibly he will learn more; 
he will know that for a brief time he was al¬ 
lowed to bear my name. Impress upon him the 
folly of trying to make capital out of this. I am a 
hard man, and nothing can move me from my deter¬ 
mination to consider him an outcast. I leave him 
to-day, and of my own free will I will never look on 
his face again.” 

These words, the look of cold pride and yet un¬ 
utterable anguish, mingled with which they had 
been spoken, had come back to Mrs. Prinsep’s re¬ 
membrance most sharply on the day little Gavin 
had come to her and had asked so simply, so gently, 
so pathetically, “Do you mind telling me whose 
little boy I am?” 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


127 


She had brushed the tears from her eyes with an 
effort and had rolled the shining- apple across the 
table to him. 

“Why, you are just our own little Gavin, boy, the 
pet of the house,” she had exclaimed; then she had 
kissed him fondly. “You are not going to bother 
your small head over tiresome things, are you?” 
she had asked briskly. “You know you are just as 
dear and good a little boy, because you happen to 
be without a father or a mother, as any little boy 
need be, and the rector and I love you as dearly as 
we love our big Reginald, or our little Eric. Come, 
give me a kiss, love, and run away and play again.” 

Gavin had given the kiss and had run away, but 
he had not played as he had been wont to do. A 
strange influence had come to him. Children’s per¬ 
ception is far more keen in these things than is 
generally imagined. Gavin, too, was a thoughtful, 
sensible, advanced child for his age, and he had felt 
rather than seen that there was something Mrs. 
Prinsep had wanted to hide from him. He lived 
after that for many a day with a kind of void in his 
life, that neither study, nor intercourse with the 
other boys, nor even the joys of football, cricket 
and all outdoor sport in which he joined heartily, 
could fill. As his ten years expanded into sixteen, 
seventeen, eighteen and nineteen, a wider scope for 
thought was given to him. He was happily in com- 


128 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


plete ignorance for a time that a certain small in¬ 
come, which had been paid regularly to the rector, 
had come to an end when his seventeenth year had 
passed. He was only grateful to> his kind tutor for 
the confidence reposed in him, and the pride the 
rector had in his talents. It was his own wish that 
he began at such an early age to give a practical 
use of these talents, and to turn them to some ac¬ 
count. John Prinsep would have urged the young 
fellow to a higher vocation than that of putting 
ideas into the brains of growing boys, but Gavin 
always hung back from all such suggestion. Am¬ 
bition seemed dead in him, though there were few 
things he could not have achieved, had he so deter¬ 
mined. He was nervously sensitive. As he grew 
older, he seemed to know all that his good friends 
would have kept from him; he was blighted by a 
sense of vague shame, of wrong, of sorrow too' deep 
for expression. 

It was not till he was about nineteen or twenty 
that he began to realize, too, the material goodness 
of the man who had trained him. It came to him 
with a sort of shock one day, that if he were without 
kin, he must be without resources also, and he shed 
the first tears of his manhood, when he had wrung 
the confession of this fact from the rector’s re¬ 
luctant lips. 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


129 


“You are our son, sharer with our other boys. 
You are as dear to us as our own children, 1 ” John 
Prinsep had said eagerly, when Gavin had ques¬ 
tioned. “Look, too, how you have helped me of 
late. What should I have done without you, 
Gavin?” 

Gavin had no words. He had wrung the man’s 
hand, and turned away. Once he had looked back 
for an instant. 

“One word more, sir,” he had said, his young 
voice strained and husky. “This source that used 
to be a means of support to me—is there never a 
word now? Do you ever hear? Is any wish ex¬ 
pressed concerning my future?” 

John Prinsep had looked at him sadly. He 
would have evaded this painful question, had not 
the truth been stronger in him than life itself. 

“There has been an unbroken silence for years, 
Gavin,” he had made answer. 

Gavin had still lingered. 

“You would rather tell me no more, sir?” he had 
asked, after a little pause; then he had answered his 
question himself. “But I am sure you would rather 
not. Do I not know you and your good, kind 
heart?” 

He had passed out into the garden, all gay with 
summer, after these words, and the rector had seen 
him go with an aching heart. He knew now he 


130 


HEARTS OE GOLD. 


should lose this “son.” He felt that Gavin’s whole 
spirit would rise and urge him into the world, and 
begin to carve out for himself a future. 

“He could live here all his life,” the rector had 
said to himself, “but he will never willingly be a 
dependent. Well, I must help him when he is ab¬ 
sent as when he is near.” 

Help him John Prinsep did. He worked to ob¬ 
tain, and succeeded in obtaining, a post of travel¬ 
ing tutor for Gavin with one of his ex-pupils. For 
two’ years, therefore, Dennison had seen . world, 
had passed from one far country to another. His 
ministrations to this pupil ended, another post was 
found for him by the family, and in this life of hard 
mental work, Gavin had lived till his twenty years 
had grown close to thirty. His one, his only hap¬ 
piness in all these years, was the unbroken tie of 
tender affection that held him to the good old 
people down in the old-fashioned Rectory home. 
He had been able to return good for good in some 
degree, for his had been the hand that had rescued 
Mrs. Prinsep’s youngest boy, Eric, from shame and 
trouble, and his hard earned] savings had been 
spent lavishly in such an act. 

Long, long before he found himself at Tarporley, 
installed as tutor to Master Robert Beresford, and 
secretary to Master Robert’s father, Dennison had 
learned the full details of his own story. He knew 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


131 


his father’s name, he knew the reason why he was 
not permitted to claim that father’s name, and the 
bitterness of a death had passed through his soul 
when he had realized that he had been made an out¬ 
cast by the one who should have cherished him the 
most. 

His secret work had been to trace out the history 
of his parents’ lives. This was easy, for the name 
he was denied was that borne by one of the oldest 
and proudest families in England. Whatever the 
cause for his father’s cruel wrong to him, and slan¬ 
der of his mother’s memory (for slander it was, the 
heart of the man continued to cry aloud), there was 
no open record of quarrel, or of scandal. Gavin 
read of his mother’s death at an age when summer 
had scarcely touched her years; he had gone down 
to her resting-place, and had stood by her grave, he 
had sought everywhere quietly to know all there 
was to know, and he had le'arned naught but good 
of her. 

The record she had left behind her was written in 
the snow of a chaste and charitable nature, and yet 
he, the child of this saintly woman; he, her only 
child, was turned adrift into the world a discarded 
nameless thing, while his father walked proudly 
through the world a man honored, distinguished; 
and those who had had cause to know her well had 
spoken of his dead mother in hushed tones, as 


132 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


though they spoke of an angel. It was a mystery 
too great to be solved by him alone. John Prinsep, 
in telling, as he had been forced to tell, the bare 
facts of the story given to him by Gavin’s father 
those many years before, had not failed to endeavor 
to soften the sorrow by recalling one strong truth 
to the young man’s mind. 

“Though your father has chosen to cut you adrift 
and deny you the rights of parentage, never forget, 
Gavin, that you are his lawful son. To-morrow, if 
you choose to do so, you could force him to recog¬ 
nize your claim; for no matter how cruel and bitter 
his anger may be, you are the child of his legal and 
lawful marriage, and moreover, you are his heir.” 

Gavin had smiled his faint, painful smile, and his 
face had flushed. 

“From me there will never be any claim. I am 
what I am, dear, kind father and friend. I have no- 
desire to force any recognition from this man; if he 
dies to-morrow, I shall stand on one side, and let 
the next of kin take the title and estates. I shall 
remain an outcast from my proper place till my 
death, unless, which is something that will never 
happen, this man, my father by nature and law, yet 
so infinitely unnatural, should come to me and with 
his own lips lift away the brand he laid on my dead 
mother and on my innocent self. Till that day 


HEARTS OE GOLD. 


133 


comes, I shall live as I have always lived, a worker, 
unknown, unclaimed.” 

He had carried away with him when he had gone 
out into the world, all the letters (they were but 
few) that had passed between his father and John 
Prinsep in those days of his babyhood, and often, 
when he was supposed to be sleeping in the long 
night hours, Gavin was sitting reading through 
those old letters, trying to pierce beneath their con¬ 
ventional phraseology and light upon something 
that would give him a clue to the truth. Fierce 
and hard as was the young man’s bitter anger 
against his father, there were moments when his 
sensitive heart seemed to catch a wail of anguish 
ringing through the stiff, cold words of those old 
letters; when a whisper came to him, whence or 
how he knew not, that the man he judged so 
harshly, who carried such a bold front to the world, 
had lived all these years with a bleeding heart, 
with a sense of wrong too horrible to be laid bare 
before his own eyes. 

Would he ever know the truth? was the ques¬ 
tion that beat and throbbed with every pulsation of 
his heart. He had spoken proudly to John Prinsep, 
and he had every intention of keeping firm to that 
proud declaration of remaining an outcast till the 
hand that had cast him adrift should, of its own 
free will, draw him back again; nevertheless, it 


134 


HEARTS OF GOIvD. 


would not have been human nature if Gavin had 
not yearned for some light to have been thrown on 
a problem that was so difficult and so sad. The 
records of his parents’ lives had included a brief 
record of his own. He had seen the announcement 
of his birth, “Gavin Dennison Archibald Montrose, 
first child of the marriage between Paul Archibald, 
Earl of Glastonbury, and his wife, Mary Philippa 
Saxon, only daughter of Charles Saxon Leighton, 
Esq., in the County of Middlesex,” in the red- 
backed guide to< the Peerage, and after this an¬ 
nouncement had been printed one single word, 
“Disappeared,” with the date that matched the year 
that saw his mother placed in the grave and himself 
given over to good Mrs. Prinsep’s care. 

By common rumor he found his mother’s pre¬ 
mature death had been brought about by reason of 
this strange disappearance of her first born. So 
acute had been her grief that she had been terribly 
ill, her second son had been born dead, and she, 
despite all care, had followed this dead child to the 
grave. 

Now and again, in his rare holidays, Gavin had 
paid visits 'to* his mother’s own home, had seen the 
house where she had been born, and had heard the 
story of how rich the Leightons once had been, and 
how sadly they seemed to have faded from the land 
where once they had reigned. 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


135 


The accounts given to- him in gossip at the vil¬ 
lage inn of his mother's girlhood, seemed to* Gavin 
to have a strange resemblance to the girlhood of 
Hetta Lorrimer. There was the same story of a 
father's weakness and extravagance, the same finan¬ 
cial difficulties, the same early marriage. 

It had been counted a great thing Gavin dis¬ 
covered, for “Miss Mary” to become the wife of 
Lord Glastonbury. There had been a grand wed¬ 
ding up at the Hall, and all the village had assem¬ 
bled to see the bride gO' away. Then had followed 
those brief three years of married life, of mingling 
in with the grand world, and then had come that 
death, so sudden, so tragic, so terrible, and after 
that death, the Squire (Gavin’s maternal grand¬ 
father) had just faded away, and the happiness that 
had given life and prosperity to the old household 
faded too, and all was ruin once again. 

Gavin learned that his mother’s old home had 
been purchased by Lord Glastonbury, but no effort 
had ever been made to let or sell the estate, or to 
keep it in profitable order. In this, almost as much 
as in the bitter ban placed upon himself, Gavin saw 
the working of a spirit terrible in its anger and 
vengeful passion, a man so injured by some wrong 
that he carried his revenge into action against inan¬ 
imate as well as living things. 

With such a weighty secret eating out his heart, 


136 


HEARTS OF GOLD. 


was it a wonder that Gavin Dennison went through 
his life with a shadow always on his brow, and a 
dumb look of suffering in his eyes? But for his 
work, and the necessity that urged him to this work 
(and the gradually diminishing income of the Prin- 
seps with advancing years, was the greatest neces¬ 
sity and incentive to work Gavin had), the man must 
have broken down the barrier which his pride and 
his father’s intolerant cruelty had raised in his path. 

There were times indeed when the effort to go on 
as he had determined was almost beyond him, 
and such a day had come when he walked 
through the spring-bedecked fields and heard Het- 
ta’s marriage bells floating on the breeze, but the 
weakness was always conquered by degrees, and 
Gavin’s natural goodness reasserted; and so it was 
on this day, when lifting his hat he reverently 
prayed for a blessing on the future of the lovely 
girl who had become dear to him by reason of her 
sweet nature, and by that strange association of 
ideas that bound her in likeness to his dead mother. 

When at last he turned to retrace his steps to 
Tarporley, Gavin, though he did not know it, was 
advancing rapidly and strangely to a change in his 
life that was to lead him eventually to close ac¬ 
quaintance, not merely with the truth concerning 
himself and the past, but with the one and only per¬ 
son from whom he yearned to know that truth. 


CHAPTER X. 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 

The newly-married couple only remained a short 
while at Herrickbourne. 

“Must be in town for the season,” Sir William 
said, in his cheery fashion. 

He had taken a tiny house in one of the smartest 
streets, and the decoration and arranging of this 
house gave him intense pleasure. 

“Wait till you see our town abode,” he always 
said when Hetta expressed her admiration for the 
quaint old manor house over which she presided 
as mistress. It was neither so' large nor so im¬ 
portant a house as Turret Teignton, but Hetta ac¬ 
tually liked it better. She had written this con¬ 
fession in her naive way to Judith Tempest. 

“Only don’t tell my daddy what I say, for he may 
call me a traitress to find any place more beauti¬ 
ful than my old home, and, of course, I do love 
dear old Turret Teignton, only this is my own 
home, and that makes such a difference, doesn’t it?” 

Judith Tempest answered this letter, and replied 
that she quite understood Hetta’s feelings. 

( 137 ) 


138 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


“I remember,” she wrote, “I had just the same 
feeling about my first bungalow out in India. I 
am so glad you like Herrickbourne. You must 
try and get Will to make this your headquarters, at 
all events for a year or so. Town runs away with a 
lot of money, and you know, though you ought to 
be a very comfortable couple, you have not money 
enough to be called rich, at least so long as I am 
on earth. You are only a baby girl in my estima¬ 
tion, little Hetta, still you must begin to learn hard, 
practical facts, and one of the hardest of these facts 
is, I am afraid, that Will has no idea of the value 
of money; so his little wife will have to keep her 
eyes wide open, and check all extravagances.” 

Hetta accepted this advice eagerly. She wanted 
something to do, something that was big and im¬ 
portant in her new, strange, beautiful life. She 
was very grateful to' Mrs. Tempest for her kind 
words. Hetta wished she could have had this kind, 
gracious woman close to her all through her life; 
a wish that grew keener as time advanced. 

Extravagance or no, Sir William Herrick was 
resolved on spending the season in town, and Hetta 
was, of course, eager to do all he wished. Mrs. 
Tempest had not exactly approved of the little 
house in Mayfair. 

A certain sum of money had been left by her hus- 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


139 


band to be settled as a dowry on any woman Wil¬ 
liam Herrick might marry, and according to the 
terms of the trust this money was available to be 
spent on house property. Acting very promptly, 
Sir William had invested this sum of money in the 
purchase and decoration of one of those box-like 
residences that are to be found scattered freely 
about the most expensive quarters of the West- 
End. 

“Why did you not buy something sensible— 
something high and airy; not a dingy little hole as 
this is!” Judith Tempest had exclaimed when she 
had gone with Herrick to inspect the purchase. 
“Hetta will die for want of air in this cage, Will.” 

“Well, she can always go back to Herrickbourne 
if she finds it too stuffy,” Will answered, with his 
imperturbable good humor. He himself was de¬ 
lighted with his house. “I hate living in a three- 
acre barn; give me something cosy, Aunt Judie!” 

“And dusty!” added Mrs. Tempest, curling up 
her dainty lip as she was carried from one small 
apartment to another. “Will, I hope you have 
realized that you have sacrificed your only available 
capital in buying this house?” 

“I sha’n’t want the capital, and I can always get 
three hundred a year for this little place.” 

“Are there, then, so many fools in the world?” 


140 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


queried Mrs. Tempest, with the most delicious hu¬ 
mor. 

Sir William only laughed. 

“You are jealous because you are condemned to 
live in the wilds of Eaton Square,” he said. 

“At least I can swing a cat in my rooms, if I want 
to,” was Mrs. Tempests retbrt to this. 

Sir William, however, saw nothing amiss. He 
was inclined to be very well satisfied, too, with his 
experiment of tfiarriage. Hetta was really a dear 
little thing, and her value had gone up considerably 
in his eyes, since some of his friends and one or 
two of the society papers had commenced to- speak 
of her as the new beauty. Anne’s departure to 
Monte Carlo signified, of course, that she had 
thrown down her arms, figuratively speaking, and 
that he had triumphed over her completely. 

Despite the fact that this really left him prac¬ 
tically a free man again, Herrick had not com¬ 
menced to condole with himself on having taken a 
wife; indeed, he began to discover advantages at¬ 
tached to the state of being a Benedict. Now he 
could flirt as much as ever he liked, and there need 
never be any annoying circumstances attached to 
the flirtations as in the case of Anne Foss. He 
promised himself no diminution in his usual pleas¬ 
ures, and in this, Hetta’s youth, worldly ignorance 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


141 


and unselfish acquiescence to all he said and did, 
would aid considerably. He thought on the whole, 
when he stopped to reflect, that he had done very 
well. All the fuss the papers had made about this 
wedding pleased his vanity exceedingly; and, being 
bereft of all conscientious scruples, or any sort or 
degree of that spirit which is called honor, Sir Wil¬ 
liam started on his new life with every intention and 
facility for enjoying himself and for eventually 
breaking the heart of the child he had married in so 
wanton a fashion. 

In due season Lady Herrick came to 1 London and 
was presented at Court, and then began a life for 
Hetta such as she had never dreamed of; a life of 
perpetual excitement, dances, dinners, rides, drives, 
theatres, the opera; never was there one day in the 
week when this round of gaiety ceased. Hetta, 
young, timid, bewildered and enchantingly fresh, 
was the very last person in the world to realize the 
power her beauty wielded, not merely on the world 
that fluttered round her, but on the mean, selfish, 
self-engrossed mind of the man she had married, 
and whom she adored so much. Judith Tempest 
viewed this rush and whirl of life in which Hetta 
was planted, with sad eyes. She knew too well that 
the girl would not be able to stand the strain for 
very long, and she knew much better that Herrick’s 


142 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


devotion (which even she did not see cause to doubt 
as yet) would fade considerably when his young 
wife was forced to retire from her prominent social 
position. Indeed, every now and then she stormed 
down upon that little house in Mayfair, and carried 
Hetta away for at least twenty-four hours’ fresh 
air, either at Turret Teignton or Herrickbourne. 

Hetta always went, because her husband desired 
she should do so (Herrick’s thought was for the 
girl’s complexion rather than her health), but she 
fretted the whole time she was away. She loved to 
be with her father, whose worn face took a tinge 
of new life and strength whenever he saw his bimbo, 
but Hetta could not live now without the near pres¬ 
ence of the handsome, sunny, happy-voiced man 
who was as a God of goodness in her eyes. 

The rest in the old home did her good, for she was 
certainly none too robust, and she liked to hear news 
of all her old friends, but she was not happy till she 
had gone back to town and her husband. During 
these flying visits to Turret Teignton, Hetta learnt 
that her old sweetheart Bob had gone off to Eton, 
and that his tutor, Mr. Dennison, had left Tarpor- 
ley. 

“I believe he has obtained a post as secretary to 
Sir George Cloudesley,” Colonel Lorrimer said on 
one occasion, naming an important political man. 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


143 


“I saw him for a moment before he left. He came 
here to bid me farewell—a nice young fellow, and 
from what I hear, bound to rise. You might be 
able to show him some little kindness. I will give 
you his address. I am sure he would be touched if 
you remembered him,” and then the Colonel 
pinched the girl’s cheek. “Fancy my little bimbo 
being such a grand and important person now; it 
is like a dream,” he said, with a smile and a sigh. 

Hetta kissed away the sigh. 

“Now you are coming back to London with me, 
daddy,” she said; “and then you can ask Mr. Den¬ 
nison to dinner yoiurself.” 

But Colonel Lorrimer shook his head. 

“Better here, my baby,” he said, with the cheer¬ 
fulness he always showed to Hetta. “When the 
season is over I shall come and spend a long holi¬ 
day with you at Herrickbourne. You will ask Mrs. 
Lorrimer, too, will you not, bimbo?” 

“(Jf course; ho\w could you think I would not? 
I never forget her, and I always try to be as kind to 
Anne as I can be. I offered you know, to present 
her at the last Drawing-room,” Hetta said thought¬ 
fully, “but she had already arranged to go with 
Aunt Judie, so I was not wanted. I am so glad 
Anne and Aunt Judie get on so^ well together; it is 
a nice thing for Anne to have such a sweet friend.” 




144 


HETTA’S first great sorrow. 


Colonel Lorrimer assented; he had, nevertheless, 
watched the intimacy between Anne and Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest with much surprise, but he had at once attrib¬ 
uted the real reason to Judith Tempest’s goodness 
of heart and to no other cause. 

“She would be good to a serpent, she can’t help 
herself,” he said tO' himself in his thoughts. 

Hetta and her father parted, that last visit to 
Turret Teignton, with many tender words and plans 
for the summer, but fate had written a different fu¬ 
ture for their August days. The season had barely 
come to an end when Lady Herrick was summoned 
hastily to her old home. She arrived too late to see 
her father alive again. The blow was terrible, com¬ 
ing especially at a time when nature demanded the 
young creature should be shielded from all rough 
winds and sorrowful moments. In all her life Judith 
Tempest had never been called upon to support 
more mental trouble than followed after Colonel 
Lorrimer’s death. Hetta was very ill—not an actual 
invalid, yet never away from the danger of becom¬ 
ing one. She refused to leave Turret Teignton 
even to accompany Sir William on a yachting cruise 
which her doctors had not regarded aversely. 

“Let me stay here, dear,” she always pleaded to 
Judith Tempest, and she did not plead in vain. It 
was Hetta who sent her husband away. 


HETTA’S FIRST GREAT SORROW. 


145 


“It is so dull here for him,” she said to Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest; “and Will has been looking forward to this 
trip to Norway so much. Oh ? yes, I can manage 
without him very well. I—I shall be better, per¬ 
haps, when he comes home.” 

So Herrick went. He was very glad to go. 
Hetta’s grief annoyed him, chiefly because it had 
changed her for a time, and robbed her of her 
beauty. Of course he was sorry for old Lorrimer, 
but then any one not a fool could have seen that 
he was dying fast. That Hetta should have been 
one of those blind fools who imagined her father 
would live forever, was to be regretted; in the mean¬ 
time it was an ill wind that blew no one any good. 
Herrick was in for a long spell of yachting and 
freedom, two' things he held exceedingly dear. 


CHAPTER XI. 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 

Anne Faster was not at Turret Teignton when 
Colonel Lorrimer died. She had been back very 
rarely to the old house since the time of Hetta’s 
marriage. Immediately on her return from the 
Riviera she had gone on her promised visit to Mrs. 
Tempest, and she had remained a guest in the big 
old-fashioned house in Eaton Square (which Her¬ 
rick always abused so much), far longer than she 
had ever dreamed could or would have been pos¬ 
sible. Actuated in the first place by pure good na¬ 
ture in asking Anne to her house, Judith Tempest 
had grown both attracted to and attached to her 
guest. Most probably it had been Sir William’s 
rather churlish words about Anne at the time of his 
marriage that had worked in her favor with his 
aunt, or again it might have been the element of 
loneliness that seemed to surround the rich young 
woman that appealed to Judith Tempest. She did 
not stop to reason or to question. There was no' 
earthly cause why she should not be intimate with 
Miss Foster if she liked, and when Anne therefore 

( 146 ) 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 147 


made some suggestion of bringing her visit to a 
close at the end of a fortnight, Mrs. Tempest quietly 
added her suggestion, which was that Anne should 
prolong it indefinitely. 

‘Tm all alone, as you see,” she said, in her gentle 
way. “You are not in a hurry to go back to Turret 
Teignton, are you? Well, why not make up your 
mind to remain on with me through the season?” 

Anne’s pale face had flushed at this. 

“You are very kind,” she answered, with a touch 
of her old ungainliness that she had never quite 
succeeded in banishing, and so the matter was set¬ 
tled. 

Although Hetta expressed open delight over this 
arrangement when it was told to her, Anne trans¬ 
lated her stepsister’s pleasure in her own fashion. 
She imagined Hetta was both annoyed and jealous 
at her friendship with Mrs. Tempest. 

“She would like to keep me outside her world 
forever, if she could,” was what Anne said to her¬ 
self. For this visit to Mrs. Tempest signified Anne’s 
first real introduction to society. Before Mrs. Fos¬ 
ter had married again, Anne and she had passed one 
season in London, that is to say they had stayed at 
a fashionable hotel, driven about in their gorgeous 
carriage, bought at the smartest shops, and had 
frequented theatres and the opera; but friends they 
had none. 


148 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 


Anne’s perception in this was very ’keen. She had 
no intention of allowing her mother and herself to 
be exploited as rich parvenus, neither would she en¬ 
courage promiscuous acquaintances. Until they 
could honestly slide into society through the proper 
people, she was content to wait and live their life 
alone. 

When chance at a seaside hotel had thrown Col¬ 
onel Lorrimer in their path, Anne had quickly rec¬ 
ognized the value attached to close connection with 
him, and although his health and Hetta’s youth had 
delayed her introduction into the most exciting and 
desirable life of London, Anne was just enough to 
see that, had it not been for her stepfather, such a 
woman as Judith Tempest would never have known 
her, or shown her so much kindness. Her stay with 
Mrs. Tempest was infinitely more satisfactory to 
her, indeed, than the projected season she was to 
have shared with Hetta, when the moment for the 
girl to come “out” had arrived, would ever have 
been. She had had no idea what an important and 
much sought after person Mrs. Tempest was, till she 
had stayed in the house a little while. Under 
Judith’s roof, Anne was brought in contact with 
more than the merely great social people (great in 
the sense of rank and title). She met also all the 
celebrated men of the day, the giants of the political, 
artistic, and literary worlds. It was a new experi- 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 149 


ence for her, and it did her good; it soothed her 
vanity, more especially when she found how much 
effect her striking personality had; but it did not 
soften her nature. Her feeling for Hetta was now 
ripe hatred. The more she felt herself admired, the 
more sure her place became among these people, 
the more bitter was her resentment against the fate 
that had taken from her her chance of becoming 
Herrick’s wife. 

She was unjust enough in her hatred to go so far 
as to say to herself, that if it had not been for Hetta 
she would still have been strong enough to have 
forced the man to do her will. It was odd that the 
full weight of her anger and hatred should have 
concentrated itself entirely against Hetta. Her 
feelings towards Herrick himself were curiously in¬ 
different; she did not hate him; she reserved all 
this strong dislike for the girl who, from the first, 
had always stood ahead of her. 

When she sometimes pondered over her position, 
and recalled all that had passed between herself 
and Herrick, she had a sensation of unutterable con¬ 
tempt for the man’s worthlessness and her own 
blind folly. She despised him now as much as she 
had once adored him. In that superstitious way of 
hers she still gave herself the consolation of feeling 
she would punish Herrick in some fashion or other. 
She imagined it possible, as the days went by and 


150 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 


she had opportunity of seeing the Herrick marriage 
drama open out before her eyes that it would not be 
long before she had this satisfaction. 

It would come in a prosaic fashion, this trouble. 
From Mrs. Tempest Anne soon learnt all there was 
to know about Sir William’s ways and means. Het- 
ta being penniless, save for some paltry fifty pounds 
a year her father managed to scrape out of his pen¬ 
sion, and childlike, being malleable as wax in the 
hands of her handsome and unscrupulous husband, 
there was bound to come a smash before very long. 
Herrick’s extravagance had always been unlimited, 
and now with the eyes of the world upon himself 
and his wife, he was not likely to start a career of 
economy. Mrs. Tempest was generosity itself; but 
even she would grow tired of repeated borrowings 
and helpings. 

The influence Herrick had upon this charming 
woman, who^ had only come into his life closely these 
last few years, was in a way a salve to Anne’s 
wounded pride, for it spoke of the man’s extra¬ 
ordinary fascination, and excused her own weakness 
to a great extent. 

“You spoil Sir William,” she said once to Judith, 
with her inscrutable smile, when Mrs. Tempest had 
confessed to a temporary depression and anxiety 
on Herrick’s account. 

“He has absolutely no knowledge of the value of 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 151 


money/’ had been the answer she gave to Anne. 
“I suppose I do spoil Will a little, but then he has 
crept into my heart as no other living creature has 
ever done. I have craved for a child of my own so 
often,” Judith had added, softly, “and when I came 
back from India and met this boy—for boy he 
seems to me still—I cannot tell you what a change 
it made to me, Anne.” 

Anne only smiled on. Vaguely she was asking 
herself why so dangerous, so utterly wicked a man 
as Herrick, should be permitted to walk about the 
world disguised in so fair, so beautiful an image of 
manliness and every good quality. She sat listening 
in silence to Mrs. Tempest as she talked on about 
“her boy.” 

“My husband grew* to think of Will as his own 
son. You see, Will’s mother, Lady Herrick, was 
my poor husband’s only sister, so the affection was 
natural. He bequeathed Will to my care as a 
sacred charge. I hope,” Ju'dith had added, half wist¬ 
fully—“I hope I have done my duty well by the boy. 
Sometimes it has come to me that there is more in 
Will’s character than he reveals to me. That is 
one reason why I should have been glad to have* 
seen him pause awhile before he married.” 

“But you like Hetta? You find her a suitable 
wife?” Anne had asked once, abruptly, and the hot, 
jealous flush had rushed to her face as she heard the 


152 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 

true tenderness ring out in Mrs. Tempest’s voice as 
she spoke of Hetta. 

“In all the world I do not consider Will could 
have found a sweeter young wife, “the older woman 
had said, warmly. “I wish she had only a few 
years more; she is such a child.” 

“That is something that will mend, and quickly,” 
Anne had answered, with a touch of cynicism. 

Intercourse between Mrs. Tempest and the Her¬ 
ricks’ house was of course frequent. Sir William 
seemed to have completely forgotten his dislike to 
Anne in these days. He made no observation to 
his aunt upon her friendship with this strange girl, 
and when Hetta had said to him once, a little plain¬ 
tively, that she had hoped Anne would have stayed 
with them, he had replied, carelessly: 

“Oh, she is far better where she is. Aunt Judie 
must have something or someone to fuss about, and 
I have no doubt Miss Foster is very well pleased 
to be in such a care. She is seeing life under a new 
aspect, and ought to enjoy herself.” 

“I hope Anne will marry happily,” little Hetta 
had said gently to this. Now that she had a hus¬ 
band of her own, and such a splendid, handsome 
husband, her tender heart longed to give such hap¬ 
piness to all lovely women, and Anne had always 
impressed her with that sensation of loneliness, 
somehow. 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 153 


“Oh, she will marry one of these days, never 
fear. She has too much money to be left on the 
shelf, and then she is deuced good-looking, in her 
own queer way,” Herrick had answered. A very 
strange feeling had made itself manifest to William 
Herrick as he said these words; a feeling of irritated 
objection to the idea of Anne marrying at all. He 
did not in the least realize what was at work within 
his mind, but certainly he found he had felt a sort 
of personal satisfaction when anyone had passed an 
admiring word on the tall, picturesque woman stay¬ 
ing with his aunt. It gradually came to him as 
the summer days flitted by that Anne was slowly 
but surely obtaining recognition of herself, not only 
as a beauty, but as a woman distinctly out of the 
ordinary run of women; and this, too, gave him a 
sense of satisfaction. Anne’s attitude towards him, 
which never varied, always smiling, yet always in¬ 
different, had a thousand times more effect upon 
such a man as Herrick, than any scene of recrimina¬ 
tion or angry reproach could have made. He had 
accepted this attitude at first with a small sigh of 
content. 

“So she is wise enough to see her true position,” 
was what he had said to himself; and so thinking, 
he had viewed her intimacy with his aunt quite 
composedly; but the contentment grew after awhile 
into a sort of annoyance. 


154 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 

“Of course she is playing a part, and deuced well 
she does it; but I am a bit tired of this acting. Why 
can’t Anne drop high drama and be sociable? 
There’s no earthly reason,” Herrick declared to 
himself, with the most approved sophistry, “no 
reason whatever why Anne and I should not be the 
best of friends. By Jove! if she had met me like 
this last Christmas, who knows what might not 
have happened! Of course she hasn’t the breeding 
and air of Hetta, but then she is a woman with 
brains and a fortune, and she’s as handsome as 
paint when she is rigged out well. I’m hanged if I 
don’t believe old Cloudesley would marry her to¬ 
morrow. He was raving enough about her last 
night after dinner at Aunt Judie’s. And to- think 
that the first time I saw her was in that dingy little 
tailor’s shop in Soho. By Jove! I can see her now, 
coming out shyly with her big dark eyes full of 
light. Well, life’s a rummy thing and no mistake,” 
Herrick told himself, as he swung out of the sun¬ 
shine of the streets into his club. “Whoever would 
have imagined that slip of a shabby girl would have 
blossomed into a great heiress, and that I should 
have married her stepsister? Anne hasn’t behaved 
badly on the whole,” was the next thought that 
came to the man. “Of course, by kicking up that 
shindy, and taking that tone with me last Christmas, 
she drove me into a corner. Still, she took her 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 155 


punishment well—deuced well, when one comes to 
think of it.” 

His eyes glancing over a newspaper, caught a 
mention of Sir George Cloudesley’s name. He 
frowned as he read something complimentary about 
a man high up in the political world, a man filling 
a big place in the Government. 

“I wonder if Cloudesley was in earnest. It 
looked like it; but Anne would not have him, of 
course. She is one of those queer creatures who 
care once for a chap and care always,” was his com¬ 
placent summing up, and here his eyes went from 
the newspaper to a mirror on the wall opposite, and 
he smiled, well satisfied with his own handsome re¬ 
flection. “Cloudesley is the best imitation of a 
monkey I have ever seen,” was the outcome of that 
moment’s perusal of his own beauty, and it was a 
conviction that gave him intense satisfaction. 

He found himself sauntering very frequently in 
the direction of his aunt’s house after this. Mrs. 
Tempest and Anne were nearly always to be found 
between five and six, and Herrick had discovered 
a tardy predilection for tea, which amused his aunt 
considerably. 

“Don’t you remember how you always abused me 
for loving my cup of tea?” she said to him on one 
occasion. 

The season was drawing to a close now; the 


156 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 


weather was very sultry. There were several guests 
in Mrs. Tempest’s big cool drawing-room. Anne, 
wearing a gown of a curious dull shade of pink—a 
gown that fell in long folds and was caught here 
and there in graceful lines about her supple figure 
by jewelled clasps—was sitting back in a low chair 
in a distant corner, talking earnestly with a hand¬ 
some young man whom Herrick seemed to recog¬ 
nize and yet could not clearly remember, as he 
entered the room. 

“I don’t think I was ever rude to you in my life,” 
he answered his aunt, as he made his salutations to 
all present, and put himself into a chair. He waited 
to catch Anne’s eye, and was considerably annoyed 
when he found she was too deeply engaged in con¬ 
versation even to remark his arrival. 

“Who is your new acquaintance?” he asked Mrs. 
Tempest, after a while. 

Mrs. Tempest looked across the room. 

“Don’t you recognize him? He has not forgot¬ 
ten you and your timely help one frosty night at 
Turret Teignton. He cannot see you from where 
he is sitting or he would have come to speak to you, 
I am sure. Hetta told me Mr. Dennison had been 
to call on her last week, but I suppose she forgot to 
tell you.” 

“Hetta always forgets everything,” Sir William 
said, half fretfully. “I told her this morning she had 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 157 


a head like a drum, and then I left her in tears, of 
course! But what is this chap doing up in town? 
I thought he was a tutor or something. He looks 
quite smart.” 

“Mr. Dennison is private secretary to Sir George 
Cloudesley; he is quite a rising man, I hear,” Mrs. 
Tempest said, a little coldly. Her face had shad¬ 
owed as she heard of Hetta’s tears. She was ex¬ 
pecting the girl to come in to tea, and she promised 
herself the pleasure of ministering with extra ten¬ 
derness to the delicate young creature when she ar¬ 
rived. “Have you not read those articles on naval 
architecture that have been running through The 
Piccadilly, this last week or so?” she went on; 
“they have been written by Mr. Dennison, and 
have created much sensation in naval circles. He 
is exceedingly clever. Anne tells me he is writing 
a book” 

“So I saved the life of a celebrated personage, it 
seems,” Herrick said, with a sneer and a touch of 
real bad temper. He could not conceive what Anne 
and this fellow were talking about so confidentially. 
He rose after a while, and put down his teacup. 
“I think I shall go and recall myself to his mem¬ 
ory,” he said, and he sauntered away just as the 
door opened to admit Hetta. 

Mrs. Tempest drew the small, white-robed figure 
into her arms for an instant. 


158 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 


“How is my Hetta to-day?” she said, tenderly, 
her eyes noting quickly the dark shadows round 
those big, wistfully beautiful eyes. 

“Quite well, only a little tired,” Hetta said, eager¬ 
ly. Poor little girl, she had no desire to have those 
dark shadows remarked upon. She had shed the 
first really sorrowful tears of her life this lovely 
summer day. Herrick had said many other things 
in his careless, cruel way, to bring those tears to her 
eyes, besides the slighting remark he had repeated 
to his aunt. “I feel a little anxious about daddy,” 
Hetta had added, quickly. She felt there was a dif¬ 
ference in her looks, and she wished to account for 
it in her own way. “You remember how I wor¬ 
ried myself about him that night when Anne came 
home so unexpectedly?” she said, smiling faintly 
into Judith’s eyes; “well, somehow all that feeling 
came back to me this morning, when I read his 
letter.” 

“I had a letter, too,” Mrs. Tempest said, deter¬ 
mined to be cheery; “and I had quite the opposite 
idea. It struck me that my old friend wrote in the 
best of spirits.” 

Hetta’s hand stole out to her kind comforter. 

“You always do me good,” she said softly. Then 
glancing round the room and catching sight of her 
husband’s tall figure, her face had flushed. “I—I 
did not know Will was coming here this afternoon.” 



“ You always do me good,” she said 








ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 159 


“He comes very often/’ Mrs. Tempest said gen¬ 
tly. She could almost see every distinct shade of 
suffering in the young heart beside her, and she 
wished tenderly she could have taken away even 
these little pains, but this was something that no 
human being could do save the one who had put 
those pains there. 

Hetta was beginning to learn some of those hard 
small tasks in life which experience teaches and fate 
exacts. Judith Tempest could only sigh and put 
more tenderness in her voice when she spoke to the 
girl. Hetta’s pale shadowed face gave her grief, 
for she feared for the future of this sensitive child 
in Herrick’s hands. 

“He has absolutely no< knowledge of how cruel 
he can be sometimes,” she said to herself; “and un¬ 
luckily this poor child accepts everything he says 
with double its value.” 

The near presence of Judith Tempest, the cool, 
fragrant room, the knowledge that her husband’s 
anger was gone, for she heard him talking and 
laughing at the other side of the room, all soothed 
Hetta. There was a touch of color in her cheeks, 
and her lips were smiling, when Gavin Dennison 
came across the room to speak to her; nevertheless, 
his first feeling was one of pain as he looked upon 
her. She was so lovely, so pathetically young and 
delicate, so inexpressibly sweet, that she seemed 


160 ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 


to him more of a child now that she was a wife, 
than she had been in those old days when he had 
met her in the country lanes. 

She was exceedingly pleased to see him. 

“I had a long letter from Bobbie this morning. 
He says he considers Eton ‘no end of a good 
place/ whatever that may mean/’ she said, with her 
pretty little laugh. “Bob and I write to one another 
very often, Mr. Dennison, and he always speaks of 
you.” 

“Bob’s heart is in the right place,” Gavin said, 
as he brought a chair forward and sat beside her. 
“I am glad he is faithful to his old allegiance. You 
know he adored you, Lady Herrick!” 

“It seems impossible it could have been I who 
romped and ran about so wildly only a year ago.” 

“Time brings changes imperceptibly on its wing,” 
Dennison said softly. He could not take his eyes 
from her. She fascinated him, and touched him in a 
way he could hardly have described to himself. He 
admired a beautiful woman as he admired all the 
perfect handiwork of Nature; sad and troubled as 
he was, he was not adamant to the power of a 
woman’s sympathy, nor was his nature steeled to 
resist absolutely the sweets and dangers of a 
woman’s influence in his life. Anne Foster 
attracted him in a marked degree, and at 
odd times in his life other women had broken 


ANNE FOSTER’S NEW INCARNATION. 161 


the spell of his sadness for a brief moment, 
but no woman had touched him as Hetta both 
touched and held him. He had a craving to give 
care and protection to this young creature; he felt 
for her that rush of tender feeling that a parent has 
for a child. He seemed to know that sorrow stood 
so resolutely in her future path; he could not rid 
himself of this instinct about her, although the 
reality of things might have been proof enough to 
have satisfied him that what he feared was an idea 
and nothing more. She was assuredly not alone in 
the world; he knew nothing against her husband, 
though Herrick belonged to a class of men among 
whom he had never mixed intimately, nor whom he 
found quite sympathetic to him, and she was sur¬ 
rounded by outward luxury, and many friends. 

Such a woman as Mrs. Tempest was, in Gavin’s 
estimation, a treasure in herself, and yet, when he 
took Hetta’s hand in farewell that afternoon, he 
went away from her haunted by a sorrow for her 
that would not be dispelled. When, about a fort¬ 
night or so later, the news of her father’s death 
reached him, it gave him a pang, for this terrible 
separation would mean a loss to the girl of a love 
that no one would ever be able to give her again. 
It hurt him, too, in a way, to realize how soon his 
prophetic feeling about her had come true. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE STRANGE WAYS OF FATE. 

Life was so much broader, so completely- 
changed with Gavin Dennison since fate, in the 
person of Master Robert Beresford’s parents, had 
introduced him into another sphere of work, that 
it was only natural his thoughts should drift away 
from their old dark channel, and things that had 
held such prominence in his mind, fade into mere 
shadows. He was in more than one sense a happier 
man since he had accepted the post of secretary to' 
Sir George Cloudesley. The drudgery o-f teaching 
had been taken from him, yet he earned more mon¬ 
ey than he had ever done. Then the moral satisfac¬ 
tion that came to him was enormous. The man 
with whom he worked had caught instantly at his 
true worth, and had at once stimulated him to some 
ambition for himself. Writing with him had been 
a gift and a solace in his days of greatest darkness, 
now he found it was destined to be the herald of 
fame and the foundation of a place for himself in the 
world. 

The knowledge of this last was a bitter delight, 
( 162 ) 


THE STRANGE WAYS OF FATE. 


163 


bitter because it brought with it all the old mem¬ 
ories of resentful pride‘that had darkened his life 
so long, and because it had the power to still darken 
his coming greatness. To make a name for himself 
was to bring questioning about himself, and what 
was he to answer when these questionings came? 
Another bitterness there was in his life now, the 
dread, yet the certainty that at any time, at any 
hour, he might be brought face to face with the man 
who had denied and deserted him—with Lord Glas¬ 
tonbury, his father. 

The shock of this knowledge had almost driven 
him back into his obscure place, when he had first 
learnt, but pride conquered him. 

“What have I to fear?” he said, bitterly, to him¬ 
self. “By this time, no doubt, Lord Glastonbury 
has forgotten even the names that were given to his 
child, and so mine will not come to him with any 
familiarity. Moreover, the world is for me as for 
him, and if I can rise, why should this man hold me 
back?” 

A train of reasoning that came sometimes to the 
old clergyman down in the country rectory, in these 
days, when news of Gavin’s advancement and pos¬ 
sibility of fame reached him. 

“It is as though destiny were determined to* 
avenge his wrong,” John Prinsep said to his wife, 


164 


THE STRANGE WAYS OE FATE. 


on more than one occasion; “the lad will rise, even 
though his father tried to'kill him socially. I pray 
they may never meet.” 

But Mrs. Prinsep had a different view. 

“I pray they may meet, John, my dear,” she said, 
stoutly; “for then that cold, hard man will perhaps 
realize the wicked thing he did those many years 
ago, and he may know some of poor Gavin’s suffer¬ 
ings when he sees how handsome and good and 
clever his son is. Yes, I pray they may meet, and 
soon, too.” 

The weeks of the season had sped away, how¬ 
ever, and Gavin had not come in direct contact with 
Lord Glastonbury. Every day of his life the name 
sounded in his ears now, for Lord Glastonbury was 
a man whose name and personality was always be¬ 
fore the public; but Gavin, though he prepared him¬ 
self for a meeting at any moment, was not called 
upon to suffer this yet. 

It was natural that with so much to occupy his 
thoughts and time, his memories of his few friends 
should stand less prominently in his mind than 
they had been wont to do, and, indeed, he had 
drifted away from frequent thought of Hetta, when 
the news of her father’s death came to revive his 
interest. He had missed her from London just be¬ 
fore the close of the season, and he had imagined 


THE STRANGE WAYS OR FATE. 


165 


her down in her old home, most possibly. It was 
from Mrs. Tempest that he heard of the girl’s loss. 

“I scarcely know how this will affect Hetta. I 
dread the result on her health and her mind,” Ju¬ 
dith had said to him, with tears in her eyes. Already 
she counted Mr. Dennison in among her favorites, 
and this night that he found himself dining with her 
was one of the many occasions when he had been 
invited thither. 

Dennison said very little as he listened to her. 
Anne, sitting on the other side of the table, watched 
him narrowly. She resented his grave, sad air. 
How could it affect him whether Colonel Lorrimer 
lived or died? 

Was Hetta to share the interest and sympathy of 
this man to such an extent that her griefs were his 
griefs? Anne had a sudden hot sensation in her 
throat. Something that had been stealing towards 
her gradually, unconsciously, these past few weeks 
was suddenly revealed to her; a strange, an almost 
incomprehensible something too. She was loath to 
take out this new-born secret from her heart and 
look at it quietly. It came to her so suddenly, so 
bewilderingly, and yet with such a passionate sug¬ 
gestion of happiness that it robbed her of her self- 
possession for a moment. 

Afterwards, when she sat alone, there was a new 


166 


THE STRANGE WAYS OF FATE. 


glow in her dark eyes, and a soft look on her lips. 
Love had come into her life once again, but what a 
different love! How much grander, higher, purer, 
sweeter, viewed by comparison with that old wild, 
girlish passion, was this love that Gavin had inspired 
in her heart! There was about it a degree of no¬ 
bility that could make her a better, a softer woman; 
that could wipe away even the dark traces of the 
miserable past; that could reinstate her once again 
in her own estimation! 

In such a moment Anne was a changed woman; 
she thrilled with hope; she could have laughed aloud 
for very happines. No doubt, no fear, no cloud 
rested on her mind. The momentary jealousy that 
evidence of Gavin’s interest in Hetta had given her, 
had passed away as quickly as it had come. For 
one short hour the heart of Anne Foster rejoiced 
with the innocent gladness of a child; all that was 
old and bad had gone from her; revenge, resentful 
hate, jealousy, none of these could live in the clear 
pure flame of her second and greatest love. Alas! 
that the nature of this woman should not have the 
strength, the power to cling to its elements of good 
when the hour of temptation and trial came. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SIR WIEEIAM’S DISCOVERY. 

It would have seemed to most people only a right 
and proper thing if Anne Foster had gone to 1 Turret 
Teignton when Mrs. Tempest had gone; to have 
made a pretence at least of offering sympathy and 
consolation to her mother and stepsister in the 
loss they had sustained; but Anne did nothing of the 
kind. 

“I have a dread, a horror of death,” she said, with 
a shudder, to Judith, when the latter took her sud¬ 
den departure. “Moreover, I am not a good hypo¬ 
crite. Colonel Lorrimer disliked me cordially, just 
as much as he knew I despised his weak, foolish 
nature; to make a mockery of mourning him is be¬ 
yond me. My mother will not want me,” Anne had 
added. “I shall go away for a little while; either to 
the sea or to Scotland. You must not think me 
very unkind.” 

It was not in Mrs. Tempest’s nature to judge any¬ 
one harshly, and she had by this time grown to 
know the weakness as well as the strength of Anne’s 
curious character. More particularly was she con- 

( 167 ) 


168 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


versant with Anne’s superstitions. Therefore, in¬ 
stead of chiding, she approved. 

“Why not accept that invitation we both had to 
go to the Highlands?” she suggested. “You will 
meet many friends. Sir George Cloudesley is go¬ 
ing to stay with the Milchesters, I know, and of 
course Mr. Dennison will go also.” 

Anne’s pale face had flushed at this. 

“If you think Lady Milchester will suffer me 
without you?” she asked, in a low, hurried voice. 

To be in the same house! To spend hours, days 
near to Gavin Dennison! To feel her influence 
growing with him perchance, as his had grown with 
her! The very thought seemed to change the mean¬ 
ing of life to her. Mrs. Tempest was well able to 
assure Anne that her presence at Lady Milchester’s 
would be accepted under every circumstance. There 
was a certain younger son of the family to whom 
Anne and her thousands was peculiarly attractive, 
so the matter was settled; and while Judith was 
doing everything her heart could suggest to min¬ 
ister to the poor sorrowful child at Turret Teignton, 
Anne was being feted quietly by people who were 
as grand and as aristocratic as her dead father’s 
ambition could have desired. She wore, of course, 
heavy mourning robes for Colonel Lorrimer, and 
she had not taken her departure till after the funeral 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


169 


was over; but she was fussed over all the more be¬ 
cause of her outward trappings of grief. Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest had proposed joining Lady Milchester’s party 
later on; but the August days waned and September 
merged into October, and yet she found no moment 
ripe for leaving Hetta. 

It would have been very hard for Judith to have 
written the true story of the girl’s sorrow in all those 
weeks. Something of the Hetta she had first known 
had been buried forever in poor Colonel Lorrimer’s 
grave. The girl made no violent protestation of 
woe; she only seemed to grow more wan, more 
white and wistful each day that passed. 

When Herrick had left her in the beginning, she 
had seemed glad for him to go<; she felt he could 
never support the sombre atmosphere of her old 
home for more than a few days, and when he had 
gone her one gleam of golden light had been the 
hope of his letters which came regularly enough for 
a little while, thanks to his aunt. Mrs. Tempest had 
taken the opportunity of saying one hurried word 
to the young man when he had flown away from 
Turret Teignton. 

“Will, whatever you do, don’t forget to write fre¬ 
quently to Hetta. The child is behaving like an 
angel in letting you leave her at all. She needs 
you,” Judith Tempest had said, with gentle em- 


170 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


phasis, “more now than at any time; but she will 
not be selfish; please try and not be selfish also, if 
you can.” 

Herrick had only laughed in his good-humored 
way. 

“All right,” he answered. “Hetta shall have her 
blessed letters. Of course I should have liked her 
to come with me, but I know it is out of the ques¬ 
tion to urge it, and I have no manner of doubt 
she will be tons better without me for a little while, 
Aunt Judie. You see,” he had added, in his prac¬ 
tical way, “I haven’t known the old Colonel ages, 
and I absolutely can’t shed tears over him, can I? 
Whereas, with poor little Hetta, of course, it is just 
the other way.” 

Mrs. Tempest had sighed as she had kissed him. 

“Do you ever shed tears over anybody, I wonder, 
Will?” she said, in an involuntary way. 

But Will had had no answer to this; he replied by 
asking a question instead. He wanted to know the 
whereabouts of Anne. 

Mrs. Tempest told him freely all she had to tell, 
and she added more. 

“It is my firm belief,” she had said, confidently, 
“that Sir George Cloudesley is actually in earnest 
in his admiration for Anne. I shall not be a bit 
surprised if I hear at any time that the outcome of 
this visit to the Milchesters will be a proposal.” 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


171 


Herrick had gone away with a sneer at this. 

“Such an excellent marriage for Cloudesley,” he 
had said, showing a touch of such evident ill-humor 
that he had left Judith puzzled in a slight degree by 
his manner. She had spoken the full truth when 
she had told him Hetta had shown him real un¬ 
selfishness in parting from him at a time when his 
presence should have been full of comfort to the 
girl; and she had sighed many a time after as the 
days had gone by and the only sign Herrick gave 
of love, or responsibility or remembrance, was an 
occasional letter written hurriedly, and sometimes 
posted long after it had been written. 

It was a hard task Judith Tempest had to fulfil 
in those days; the task of gradually, almost imper¬ 
ceptibly, drawing away the veil of blind faith and 
infatuation from the girl-wife’s eyes. She did it 
very, very gently. She hardly knew herself how it 
was that she weaned Hetta from her heart-whole 
belief in Herrick’s absolute goodness. Circum¬ 
stances made it easier for her, perhaps, than it might 
have been. As the summer merged slowly into au¬ 
tumn, and Herrick still remained away, something 
of the selfishness which was SO’ essentially the key¬ 
note of his nature, was given to Hetta’s under¬ 
standing. She excused him for remaining at Tur¬ 
ret Teignton only a couple of days and then rushing 


172 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


up to Scotland for some shooting after the yachting 
trip was over; but she yearned for him none the 
less. She was, however, so young, so innocent of 
conventional and worldly things that she did not, in 
the least, recognize the view her stepmother and 
Judith began to take of his absence. 

Mrs. Lorrimer was, in fact, very outspoken to 
Mrs. Tempest when they were alone. 

“It were quite one thing ’im going off sailin’, as 
he did, for a week or so, just after the poor Col¬ 
onel’s death; but his stayin’ away so long is another 
thing altogether. He must know as the dear child 
ain’t likely to grow much happier with ’im galli¬ 
vantin’ about alone. I must say, ma’am, it do as¬ 
tonish me! I thought he loved our little ’Etta, that 
I did; and if he didn’t love her, what for ever did 
he go and marry her for? I ain’t pleased, I can tell 
you, at my Anne stayin’ away all this time; but 
when it comes to Sir William, ’im not married more 
nor a few months, why, there! I don’t know what 
to say about it!” 

Mrs. Tempest tried to throw oil on the troubled 
waters, but her heart was so absolutely with Mrs-. 
Lorrimer that she was not very successful. 

“Hetta wished him to go, and the child is so sen¬ 
sitive and delicate and unstrung since her father’s 
death,” she said, hurriedly, “that I almost think it 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


173 


is a good thing he is away. Will is so full of health 
and spirits, you see, dear Mrs. Lorrimer; and people 
who are so strong are not always the best com¬ 
panions for those who are delicate. I assure you, I 
should be very anxious for Hetta if her husband 
were here now; she would be sure to want to do 
everything he did, just to< please him, and that would 
not be a very happy state of things, would it?” 

Mrs. Lorrimer was homely, was plain, was very 
stout, and nearly always sleepy, yet she was a 
very long way off from being a fool. Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest’s words did not convince her in the very least; 
but she saw the difficulty of the other woman, so 
she did not press the subject further. 

“It is certainly one way of lookin’ at the matter, 
and perhaps it ain’t such a bad one neither,” she 
said, dryly; and after that she held her tongue, and 
only that her manner was more tender than ever to 
Hetta, it might have been supposed she accepted the 
state of the case calmly. 

She relieved her feelings writing to Anne, little 
guessing, poor woman, that her own child was the 
very last person in the world to whom she could 
carry this trouble, or that all that was pitiful and 
painful in the younger girl’s life was almost a sat¬ 
isfaction to Anne. 

Anne, on her side, made no confidences to her 


174 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


mother. She wrote—when she did write—the cold¬ 
est letters possible, confining herself chiefly to giv¬ 
ing orders about Turret Teignton, and dictating her 
mother’s movements in her usual autocratic fash¬ 
ion. She was not—as she had said to Judith—a 
good hypocrite. She had felt some sympathy to 
Hetta when Colonel Lorrimer had died, for, even in 
her bitter jealousy, there was place for compassion 
when it came in no contact with her own feelings, 
but once this was given all that followed was, to her 
highly-strung, overwrought imagination, but the 
working out of the atonement due to her for the 
wrong she had suffered at Herrick’s hands. 

That it should be Hetta who was called upon to 
make atonement for another’s wrong did not strike 
Anne’s usually just mind as unjust, for in Hetta’s 
individuality she had heaped together the definite 
wrongs of the man and the innocent hurts that the 
girl had. dealt out to her from the first; and from 
Hetta it was, therefore, that she looked for atone¬ 
ment. Herrick’s treatment of his wife was in no 
way different, Anne knew very well, to what his 
treatment would have been to her, or to any other 
woman whom fate had given to him for wife. She 
saw in this, not an expression of neglect for a single 
person, but only the man’s utter contemptible 
selfishness working its way clear to the end. 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


175 


When Herrick suddenly joined the Milchester 
house party in September, Anne had a new view 
of the character of one whom she now despised so 
freely. To a vanity so strongly developed as Anne’s, 
the fact that Herrick was now regarding her with 
changed eyes could not fail to carry satisfaction; 
but the value of this triumph, all poor as it was, 
was discountenanced by the influence which Gavin 
Dennison had now upon her and her life. Anne’s 
visit to the Milchesters had commenced with a 
strong element of disappointment. Sir George 
Cloudesley, who expected to reach Scotland early 
in August, did not really arrive till just about the 
time that Herrick made his appearance there. To 
Anne it was a matter of complete indifference 
whether Sir George arrived or not; but as his com¬ 
ing signified the coming of Gavin, she listened im¬ 
patiently each day for some tidings from her host 
and hostess of the politician’s movements. Then, 
when at last Cloudesley did come, Anne had the 
keenest disappointment of all, for Mr. Dennison did 
not accompany the great man. 

“Will join me here probably in a week’s time; 
that is if you will be bothered with me so long, 
Lady Milchester,” Sir George said, when he was 
questioned as to his secretary’s absence. “Gone 
down to the country to bury an uncle or someone. 


176 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


Poor Dennison seemed deeply attached to' this rela¬ 
tive. I never saw anyone so much cut up. So 
glad you like Dennison, Lady Milchester, ,, Sir 
George had gone on; “he is a splendid fellow. I 
prophesy a great future for him if he gets his proper 
chance.” 

“He certainly knows how to use a pen,” was the 
remark made her by one of the guests. 

“And he knows how to be grateful,” Anne added, 
in a voice that was very gentle, and intended for 
Sir George's ear alone. 

This praise of the man she had grown to love so 
unwisely, and with such a wealth of passion, was 
as sweetest music to her ears. It needed only this 
tribute from the world; this certainty that Den¬ 
nison would prove great, to make him the one man 
in the world for her. She taught herself anew the 
lesson of patience in the days that followed. Again 
and again she would have brought her visit to an 
end, but Lady Milchester always begged her to 
remain; wise hostess as she was she saw the ad¬ 
vantage of keeping Anne with her as guest as 
long as possible, for Anne was undoubtedly an at¬ 
traction. 

It came to Herrick as an amazement the attrac¬ 
tion this curious, handsome, cold, languid woman 
seemed to possess. He tried to solve the problem 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


177 


in vain; he only knew that it pleased him immensely 
to be near Anne, and to remember what Anne 
had been to him. She might be as cold as ice to 
him, he said to himself, with an easy laugh; he, at 
least, was always something to her; something these 
other fellows could never be. Herrick, in fact, was 
enjoying his visit in Scotland more than he had 
enjoyed anything else for a very long time, when his 
mental horizon was disturbed by two new elements. 

In early October Gavin Dennison reached the 
Milchester’s party; not to pay a long visit to the 
house, but to be the bearer of important despatches 
to his chief. With this arrival a change came over 
Anne, so marked to Herrick’s eyes (and to study 
the personality of this woman had become a daily 
task with him) that he awoke to something like the 
truth. It would have required a thunderbolt to 
drive the vanity, and the satisfaction of his vanity, 
to a sudden conviction that any other man could 
supplant him in Anne’s heart; yet he had a shock, 
and in that shock he saw a possibility of what was 
already a fact. 

Now Herrick had absolutely m> intentions as re¬ 
garded Anne; she occupied his thoughts only be¬ 
cause she gave him pleasure in so doing. If he had 
troubled himself to' probe the matter, he would have 
discovered that he really approved of her marriage 


178 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


with Sir George Cloudesley, or someone of that 
calibre. A high social marriage would please Anne, 
and could not rob him of that satisfaction his vanity 
derived from remembering the past. Such a mar¬ 
riage, in fact, might have been productive of much 
that Herrick’s loose morality classed as amusement, 
for it would have given him the opportunity of flirt¬ 
ing with Anne at absolutely no risk to' either of 
them; besides it solved the question of her future, 
and Herrick never disguised from himself that 
Anne’s future might signify a certain amount of an¬ 
noyance for him should she remain unmarried per¬ 
petually. 

“Bitterness grows with age!” was what he had 
said to himself now and then when he had dis¬ 
cussed with himself Anne’s calm acceptance of his 
marriage. “Perhaps she is saving herself to have 
a big go at me one of these days when she is tired 
of playing the grand lady. She doesn’t deceive me 
by her quietness. Such a firebrand as Anne could 
not be quiet without some very good reason.” The 
thought about Hetta had come to him, too, now and 
again. “I expect when she finds she can’t do me 
any harm, she will try and get home on Hetta,” he 
had said, and he had always laughed at the idea. It 
was so like a woman, he would argue, to work out a 
spite against another woman, and one who had 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


179 


never done a wrong at all. “Of course she hates 
Hetta like poison/’ he mused on when these moods 
of thought came to him; “and Hetta is so blind to 
it all. But then Hetta is a silly schoolgirl; what 
does she know of hate—or of love either, if it 
comes to that? Anne’s is the nature to hate and 
love at once. By jingo! if I had known what the 
future was to be in those dingy days, I should have 
played my cards differently.” 

This last was a thought that pressed prominently 
with the man when he saw what a place of power 
Anne’s wealth had given her. Money was such a 
vanishing article with him, and so increasingly nec¬ 
essary, that he at times could not quite understand 
how it was he had been such a fool as to despise 
Anne’s fortune that winter’s night at Turret Teign- 
ton. However, in the spirit of complacency that 
his frequent after-meetings with Anne brought 
about, the question of her money also shared. It 
was never a definite suggestion of resource, yet it 
was too sufficiently definite, for, he argued with 
himself, a woman who loved as Anne still loved 
him, was not one to love in an empty fashion, and 
should fortune frown upon him, well, then Anne 
would doubtless step in and change the frown to 
smiles again just out of the memory of her un¬ 
changing love. 


180 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


Out of this pretty dream Herrick was roused 
rudely by the arrival of Gavin Dennison on the 
scene, and with his arrival, by the knowledge that 
there was undoubtedly the danger (a danger he had 
never imagined possible) of another man holding 
some of the power he once held with Anne. It 
was about the roughest blow a nature so abnormally 
selfish and vain could support, and Herrick resented 
such a blow exceedingly. He was in an extremely 
disagreeable mood when the second disturbing ele¬ 
ment touched his former peaceful position in the 
shape of an urgent summons from Mrs. Tempest 
to journey back to England and Turret Teignton 
without delay. There had been a carriage acci¬ 
dent, Hetta was with Mrs. Lorrimer in the carriage 
at the time; her child had been born dead; she was 
very, very ill. 

The news created some consternation among 
Lady Milchester’s guests, all of whom had come in 
contact with Sir William Herrick’s young wife dur¬ 
ing the London season, and all of whom had been 
touched by the sweetness and beauty of the girl. 

A sentiment felt, but not expressed, ran through 
the party, and this sentiment was one that Herrick 
would have been surprised to find reflected strongly 
on himself, and his selfish neglect of his wife during 
these past few weeks. Anne alone, out of the entire 


SIR WILLIAM’S DISCOVERY. 


181 


circle of guests had no sorrow or sympathy for 
Hetta; instead, her thoughts, winging flight to the 
suffering young creature, were more bitter, more 
deadly in their nature than any Hetta had as yet 
inspired. 

It had been a look on Dennison’s face, a curious 
air of dumb anxiety written in his eyes and silent 
lips when Hetta’s illness was spoken of before 
him, that woke that new and worst form of jealousy 
in Anne Foster’s heart for her stepsister; it matched 
that feeling that had flashed SO' quickly into her 
mind the night at Judith Tempest’s dinner-table, 
when the new truth in her heart had been revealed 
to her; but this second spasm of hate, of anguished 
jealousy, was far worse, far more terrible in its 
potentialities than even Anne could have described. 

If only Gavin Dennison could have known that 
there were eyes to note his pain so quickly, and to 
translate it in so fierce a fashion, he would have 
suffered death itself rather than have let one ex¬ 
pression of even conventional sorrow for Hetta 
escape him; but buried as he was in his own 
thoughts, Gavin was far, indeed, from dreaming of 
the power he held in Anne’s heart, and the danger 
that could be worked indirectly by him to Hetta’s 
future peace of mind. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 

Christmas had come and gone, and a new spring 
was forcing its gentle way through the winter’s 
gloom with gladsome hours of sunshine and a 
sprinkling of feathery green on hedge and tree, be¬ 
fore Gavin Dennison and Hetta met again. 

The winter had been a very long one to the girl; 
her strength seemed almost to have ebbed away in 
the illness that had come to her so sharply in the 
autumn. The carriage accident might indeed have 
been a fatal one to Herrick’s wife; but save for the 
terrible shock and the after effects, Hetta really 
had been untouched, even though the accident had 
been a particularly bad one. 

It was poor Mrs. Lorrimer who suffered the 
worst in the unfortunate affair, and there came days 
afterwards, when the worst crisis was over with 
Hetta, that the doctors (and Judith had summoned 
more than one celebrated physician) looked grave 
over the condition of the kindly woman who had so 
ill-suited her position in one respect, and yet whose 
goodness of heart would have entitled her to respect 
( 182 ) 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


183 


and admiration in any position. The injuries Mrs. 
Lorrimer had received were far more serious than 
a few cuts and bruises and a sprained arm, as had 
been imagined in the beginning; and by the time 
Hetta had become sufficiently convalescent to be 
carried away to a southern seaside spot for change 
of air, Anne Foster knew that the days of her 
mother’s life on earth were numbered. 

The good that would have been so abundant in 
her but for Herrick’s wicked cruelty to her in her 
girlhood, came to the fore in such a time. She 
had often tried to teach herself a lesson of contempt 
and impatient resentment against the fate that had 
given her the mother she owned; but down in Anne’s 
curious, selfish, blighted heart there was a feeling 
for her mother that nothing could quite kill; and 
when the doctors told her the news that the internal 
symptoms which had developed so painfully and so 
rapidly with Mrs. Lorrimer could have but one end¬ 
ing, and that ending a speedy one, Anne’s world¬ 
liness and self fell away from her a little, and she re¬ 
membered only her mother’s history of unfailing 
love, and of the void there would be in her life 
when this kindly creature was gone. Mrs. Lor¬ 
rimer herself was fully aware of her condition. 

“I ain’t surprised, Anne, my dear,” she said, with 
a faint attempt at her own cheeriness, when the 


184 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


days went by and her suffering and weakness in¬ 
creased. “I always knew I weren’t to make old 
bones, and I ain’t sorry to go neither, Anne,” the 
mother had added a little more slowly, after awhile. 
“I’m not any use to you, my girl, and you’ll do 
a sight better without me. You’re started well 
now, ain’t you, Anne? Your poor father, he’d be 
mighty pleased if he could know the swells as call 
his girl friend. I’d a been gladder to go knowing 
you’d found a good man as ’ud take care of you, 
Anne; but there, that will come some day. Who 
knows, perhaps you’ll marry a lord, Anne.” 

Anne did not smile or wince as she once would 
have done at her mother’s words; they smote her a 
little, and yet they brought a thrill too. If only she 
could have spoken out freely to this dying woman, 
and have told her that a good man had crept into 
the holiest corner of her heart, and that, if Heaven 
were only kind to her, this good man would come 
to her life before long and take care of her! 

Anne found herself praying for Gavin’s love quite 
unconsciously in those days when she sat by her 
mother’s bedside tending the sick woman. 

“Only let this be given to me,” she said to her¬ 
self again and again, “and I will praise Heaven all 
my life. Surely—surely I may claim some happi¬ 
ness after I have suffered so much?” 

She had not seen Gavin since their meeting in 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


185 


Scotland, but he wrote to her occasionally. It was 
true he only wrote in answer to some letter of hers, 
but still he did write, and each stroke of his pen 
was as a treasure to Anne. 

He sent her also, at her request, some of the 
articles he was writing so frequently now; and 
when she gave him the news of her mother’s illness, 
he wrote her a letter that seemed to her the sweet¬ 
est letter a friend had ever penned. 

The jealousy over Hetta had been quickly lulled 
again. She had dreaded at first lest he should have 
shown some evidence of anxiety about the girl when 
the worst of her illness arrived; but Gavin was silent, 
quite silent. To whom should he have written all 
he felt for the little creature that fate had given into 
Herrick’s careless, unworthy hands? Thought of 
Hetta touched him in a way that he had not as yet 
set before himself. The strange resemblance he had 
traced between this girl’s life and the life of his own 
mother, was not the only bond that made each recol¬ 
lection of Hetta a treasure and yet a sorrow. All 
through the winter, when he was working hard, for 
literary work had begun to pour in upon him, and 
his kind friend and patron, Sir George Cloudesley, 
had already severed him from his secretarial duties 
in order that he might devote himself to literature, 
he had a vision of Hetta in his mind as he had last 
seen her in Mrs. Tempest’s drawing-room; a pathet- 


186 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


ic, childish creature in her simple white frock, and 
her sweet pale face with the shadows of tear-stains 
about her eyes. 

It was a very, very different image this to the 
happy, bright-faced girl whom Bobbie Beresford 
had adored, and whom he had grown to love as a 
nymph of the country lanes and fields, and it was 
very, very much more dangerous to him. He heard 
nothing direct about her all through the winter. 
Anne was careful to avoid the mention of Hetta’s 
name in the letters she wrote to Dennison; she told 
of her mother’s fading health, but of the girl-invalid 
at the sea he heard nothing; he knew nothing save 
that she was with Judith Tempest, and that her hus¬ 
band was in town hard at work amusing himself in 
his own sunny fashion. 

He did not know what his feelings were for Her¬ 
rick; he certainly did not hate him, for he was grate¬ 
ful by nature, and he could never forget that he 
owed his life to Herrick; moreover, it would be dif¬ 
ficult for anyone to hate such a man as William 
Herrick. To despise him was easier, and Dennison 
had not been long in the world of London before 
he knew how utterly Herrick deserved to be 
despised by all honest-hearted men; but his strong¬ 
est feeling was one of deep regret at the fate that 
should have given over a fresh, delicate, sensitive 
child to the care of a man who had absolutely no 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


187 


sense o>f reverence for the beautiful part of a wom¬ 
an’s nature, who set no meaning on the word tie, 
or responsibility, and who was, therefore, the one 
man in the world best calculated to kill Hetta’s 
heart, and to anguish the faith and darken the sun¬ 
light of her soul. 

He wondered vaguely to himself what could have 
led Herrick to commit the blunder of making a mar¬ 
riage at all. 

“He was never born to bow to any moral bond; 
marriage to him means the death of liberty, and he 
must be free. Why did he choose this child? She 
has loveliness, it is true, but not the loveliness to 
hold him a day. She was in his view a pauper—• 
what, then, induced him to marry? or why, having 
decided to marry, did he not choose that other wom¬ 
an? Anne Foster is the very wife for such a man 
as Herrick; passionate, strong-willed, fascinating, 
essentially woman in the most dangerous sense of 
the word, as far apart from the other as the tulip is 
from the violet. His equal, his superior; a clever 
companion, and one always mistress of a situation. 
Here was his fitting wife, and yet he must steal 
the other, and having stolen it, must do his best to 
crush the life out of it!” 

Gavin’s thoughts were always tinged with this 
bitterness when he caught a glimpse of Herrick 
flashing through the streets in his private cab, or 


188 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


when some mention of the popular young Baronet’s 
movements were printed as interesting news in 
some one of the papers. 

He was sorely tempted once or twice in those 
winter days, when he read of Herrick’s departure to 
Monte Carlo, where he covered himself with notori¬ 
ety and ruin at the tables, to take a train to Bourne¬ 
mouth, and just gladden his eyes by a glimpse of 
the child-woman he knew now he loved as he should 
never love again. He was weaving Hetta into the 
plot of the novel he was writing. She was his in¬ 
spiration, the poem of his life. He sometimes won¬ 
dered if she would understand or be glad if she 
could know what an influence she had grown to be 
with him. He owed her so much, he would say to 
himself sometimes, tenderly. Thought of Hetta 
wooed him from thought of his old heavy trouble. 
Even when grief had come to him in John Prin- 
sep’s death, thought of Hetta had come to bring 
him a reminder that there was one who would have 
wept tears with him over his faithful old friend could 
she have been told the story of his life. It was a 
dreamland in which the man dwelt and worked, but 
it was one that belonged to his nature and that did 
him infinite good. Out of this dreamland he was 
awakened one cold, clear day of March. Walking 
through Bond Street, a rare occurrence with him, 
he met Mrs. Tempest’s neat brougham, and with a 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


189 


flash of pleasure caught a smile from Judith herself. 
She checked her carriage and called him to her. 
Dennison had a great sympathy for this woman, 
still beautiful, though no longer young. 

“I was thinking of you at this very moment, and 
wondering where I could find you, Mr. Dennison. 
I want you to come and dine with us to-night, if you 
are disengaged. 

Dennison’s face flushed. 

“I shall be delighted,” he murmured, quickly. 

The thought of meeting Hetta was at once a de¬ 
light and a. pain. 

“Lady Herrick is better, I hope?” he added hur¬ 
riedly. 

Mrs. Tempest nodded her head, but her smile 
vanished. 

“Far from well, I am sorry to say, but undoubt¬ 
edly better. She is much troubled just now. You 
may have heard that Mrs. Lorrimer, her step¬ 
mother died last week. This is a grief to Hetta, 
and an anxiety, too,” Mrs. Tempest paused a mo¬ 
ment. “I don’t know why I should not confide in 
you,” she said. Then simply, “I feel, somehow, as 
if you were an old friend, Mr. Dennison; you have 
the gift of true sympathy, you see. Well, then, I 
will tell you why my poor little Hetta is so troubled. 
Mrs. Lorrimer, in dying, has willed all her money 
to the girl”—and Judith paused again—“and Anne 
is going to dispute Hetta’s right to the money.” 


190 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


Dennison looked as he felt, almost shocked. 

“This is an anxiety indeed,” he said, speaking 
with some difficulty. Then more eagerly, “But of 
course it will be arranged. Lady Herrick and Miss 
Foster could never quarrel.” 

“Hetta would not quarrel with any living crea¬ 
ture; but Anne is different, you see. I am so 
grieved about it, for I had grown to like Anne. 
However, come in and cheer us up 'this evening, 
Mr. Dennison. I must go now, I am on my way 
to see a lawyer. We shall be quite alone,” Mrs. 
Tempest said, as they clasped hands, and the car¬ 
riage began moving again. “That is to say, only a 
very, very old friend of mine is coming, but you 
will like to meet Lord Glastonbury, I am sure; 
he is—” 

But what Mrs. Tempest’s last words were Gavin 
never knew. A sudden blaze of light seemed to 
dance before his eyes, the ground seemed to rock 
beneath his feet for an instant, then his force of 
will and courage came back to him, and he walked 
on through the crowded streets slowly. Once 
again he was conscious of gratitude to Hetta. The 
greatest, most trying moment of his existence was 
close at hand, and yet even in such a moment he 
remembered that Hetta was to greet him that night, 
and in this memory the pain of the other was lost. 


CHAPTER XV. 


FACE TO FACE. 

Hetta was sitting alone in Mrs. Tempest’s draw¬ 
ing-room when Dennison arrived that evening. The 
man’s heart contracted with a sudden sharp pain as 
his eyes rested on her. He hardly knew her at first, 
sorrow and illness had changed her so much. In 
one short year she had left her girlhood behind 
her, yet she was, he saw this in one glance, infi¬ 
nitely more lovely now than she had ever been be¬ 
fore. The radiance of her happy youth had gone, 
but something exquisitely sweet had come in its 
place. Where once she had been the embodiment 
of glowing joyous health she was now delicate, 
frail, ethereal; a creature so fragile that she seemed 
but a spirit passing through the world and pausing 
a brief while before winging her flight onwards. 
She wore a gown of some clinging black material, 
and the sombre garb gave her height. A touch of 
color and a flash of gladness came into her face as 
she saw Dennison, otherwise she was very, very 
pale; a white flower. She gave him both her little 
hands in greeting. 


(191) 


192 


FACE TO FACE. 


“I am so glad to see you again, 1 ” she said; and 
then he caught the old girlish note of warmth and 
eagerness in her voice. “I was so pleased when 
Aunt Judie brought back the news that you were 
coming to-night.” 

Gavin murmured something, he hardly knew 
what; the touch of those little hands sent a thrill 
through him that drove calmness from him for the 
moment. He had spent the hours since he had 
parted from Mrs. Tempest in teaching himself the 
lesson of strength and calmness for what lay be¬ 
fore him this evening, and in the matter of meeting 
Lord Glastonbury it was extraordinary how strong 
and self-reliant he felt. 

With Hetta it was altogether a different matter, 
however, and Gavin found in the very first moment 
of their meeting that he had completely overrated 
his sense of self-control; he learnt, moreover, in 
such a moment the full meaning of his feelings 
for this girl, who was wife to another man, and the 
truth, when it came, gave him a shock. Hetta 
noticed nothing of his strange, constrained manner; 
she found him changed, but changed altogether for 
the better. He had an air of distinction which was 
quite apart from his well-cut clothes, and was some¬ 
thing that was rare in other men, even in the num¬ 
ber of smart fashionable men she met nowadays. 


FACE) TO FACE. 


193 


She attributed it and rightly, in a sense, to his new 
position, to his literary work, and to the pleasure 
that this work brought. Hope and success had 
done much for Gavin, and his contact with the 
world that was his proper sphere had rubbed away 
swiftly that carelessness, that touch of shabbiness 
in his appearance, which had fallen upon him in 
his days of teaching. Hetta found herself wonder¬ 
ing, with a faint touch of amusement, if Mrs. 
Beresford would have been able to patronize this 
handsome, distinguished young man, as she had 
undoubtedly patronized and snubbed him when he 
was her boy’s tutor? 

There was something about Gavin in his present 
guise that would, she felt, hold even Mrs. Beresford 
in check, and that was saying a great deal. She 
began speaking to him about Bob, and they ex¬ 
changed the news that the boy had written to them 
both. Bob was a good subject for conversation, 
and a safe one. 

Gavin’s eyes noted, as he chatted on about his 
old pupil, how fleeting were Hetta’s smiles, and 
often a sigh would flutter from her lips almost un¬ 
consciously. He forced himself to enquire in con¬ 
ventional fashion after Herrick. Had he not known 
Sir William was absent, he would not have accepted 
Mrs. Tempest’s invitation at all. Hetta’s voice 


194 


FACE) TO FACE. 


sounded hurried as she answered him. She had 
already, poor child, grown accustomed to making 
excuses for her husband’s absence. She explained 
that Sir William was abroad. 

“I expect he will join me at Herrickbourne when 
I go there next week; at least I hope so,” she said, 
and smiled with lips that trembled. It was with 
an air of relief that she turned to greet Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest, who entered the room at that instant. To 
speak of Herrick calmly was something she had 
yet to learn. 

“I am glad Lord Glastonbury is unpunctual for 
once/’ Judith said, laughingly, as she clasped hands 
with Dennison, “for I am disgracefully late. I 
know you will forgive me, however, Mr. Dennison, 
when I tell you I only arrived home about half an 
hour ago.” 

• “She is so sweet and good,” Hetta said, in her 
pretty tender voice; “she takes everyone’s troubles 
on her own shoulders.” Here the girl sighed. 
“And she has just lifted a heavy weight from my 
mind/’ she added quietly. 

Judith Tempest put her arm about the girl affec¬ 
tionately. 

“I told you of our little trouble this morning, 
did I not?” she said to Dennison. “Well, we have 
soon brought the trouble to an end. Miss Foster’s 


FACE TO FACE. 


195 


extraordinary attitude followed so quickly on her 
poor mother’s death, and this child has been so 
much of an invalid, that for a moment we were too 
bewildered to act in the only way possible.” She 
smiled down at Hetta encouragingly. “We have, 
of course, written to Miss Foster, resigning all 
claim whatever to the money that that good crea¬ 
ture left behind her.” 

“Anne surprised me,” Hefcjta said, in a low voice. 
“I could not have believed it possible that she 
would have written me such a letter. She must 
have known poor Mrs. Lorrimer’s intentions, and 
she could have prevented this if she had wished.” 
Hetta sighed again. “Anne has always been 
strange and cold with me,” she said wistfully; “still 
I have never doubted her good heart, and I never 
imagined she would have doubted me.” 

Mrs. Tempest rushed eagerly in with consolation, 
as was her custom. 

“I have told Hetta I am sure Anne is as sorry 
as we are for what she wrote. You know I got 
to understand a little of Anne’s nature this last 
year when she was staying with me. She is an odd 
nature, full of good, and yet capable of evil too. 
I think she is the most jealous person I know. She 
was jealous that her poor mother should have re¬ 
membered Hetta at the last; that was why she 


196 


FACE TO FACE. 


was angry. She wanted all her mother’s love and 
remembrance for herself, and perhaps, after all, this 
was natural.” 

Hetta smiled faintly. 

“Perhaps,” she said, but Gavin saw she was un¬ 
convinced, and that Anne’s attitude was causing 
her real grief. 

He would have given all he possessed in the 
world to have said something gentle and consoling 
to her, but words were not easy, and moreover, 
at this moment the servant opened the door and 
announced the name that was graven upon his 
heart, and Gavin had to turn and face the most 
eventful and painful moment in his life. 

Sight was not clear to him for a few seconds as 
Lord Glastonbury came into the room, and he 
bowed his head almost involuntarily in answer to 
the presentation Mrs. Tempest made of one man 
to the other; full consciousness, however, came 
back to him by degrees, and as he turned to answer 
some words from Hetta, he was once again calm 
and perfectly controlled. 

Lord Glastonbury stood with his face half averted 
from the young man, in the few moments that fol¬ 
lowed before dinner was announced. If any sur¬ 
prise or other emotion had come into that cold, 
clean cut face, not one of those present could notice 



He was looking at her white loveliness 












FACE TO FACE. 


197 


it. His voice, that famous voice which Gavin had 
so often longed, yet dreaded to hear, sounded with 
its usual even tone, as he stood chatting with his 
hostess. 

Instinctively Hetta and the younger man had 
drawn away. They went across the room to look 
at a picture on the opposite wall. 

“I am always a little afraid of Lord Glastonbury,” 
Hetta said, softly, as they went. “It is foolish of 
me, for he is always charming to me; but I suppose 
he makes me feel insignificant. You see he is so 
grand, poor man!” 

Dennison was looking at her white loveliness, 
not at the picture she was pointing out to him. 

“Why do you say 'poor man,’ Lady Herrick?” 
he questioned, hurriedly. “Surely that is the last 
word one should apply to so celebrated, so great 
a man as Lord Glastonbury?” 

“I don’t know why I said it,” Hetta answered 
him, almost apologetically; “but somehow I have a 
sensation of pity for him. He has so much, and 
yet so little, and then people say he has never for¬ 
gotten his wife—and oh! how sad it must be to 
live alone always, always alone, with one’s heart 
buried in a grave!” There were tears in Hetta’s 
lovely eyes. “And yet,” was the sentence that 
came next, “how sweet to be remembered so long 


198 


FACE TO FACE. 


and so faithfully. Do you know, Mr. Dennison, 
why I am afraid to die? It is because I am afraid 
of being forgotten. Oh! I suffer—I suffer when 
I think of this. Forgetfulness in life is very bad, 
but then one can always hope to bring back re¬ 
membrance; but forgetfulness after death, oh—” 

“Hetta, Hetta, what doleful things are you say¬ 
ing?” cried Mrs. Tempest, in dismay—she had 
swept up to them in her long black robes, a queenly 
woman still. “Do you know that dinner is an¬ 
nounced, and that you are to lead the way with 
Mr. Dennison?” 

With a smile and a blush, Hetta brushed the 
tears from her eyes and took Gavin’s arm. 

“You must forgive me, I—I am full of strange, 
sad thoughts just now. Perhaps I shall grow better 
soon, but life seemed to change and darken for me 
when my daddy went, and—and afterwards too.” 

“To those who think at all life must ever have 
its gray clouds,” Dennison said. 

He spoke with constraint. What words could 
he say to such pathetic words as these? Better 
was it for him to seem dull, stupid, unsympathetic, 
than to let one glimmer of his true feelings escape 
him. And he understood her so well, far better 
than she did herself, poor child! He read the 
anguish of her heart beneath those broken words. 


FACE) TO FACE. 


190 


It seemed to him an incomprehensible thing that 
there lived a man so blind, so insensible to life’s 
best and truest possibilities of happiness as Herrick 
was proving himself to be; that any man could so 
soon tire of SO’ fair and tender and pure a creature 
as Hetta, was another point that was impossible 
for Gavin to grasp. 

He knew, of course, that he was very differently 
constituted to men of Herrick’s class, and that with 
this class depth, fidelity, or strength of affection did 
not exist, still he had not enough of the world’s 
sophistry in him to make such things comprehensi¬ 
ble to him. 

In the case of Herrick, he found the man’s in¬ 
difference to his young wife a matter that was worse 
than strange, it was criminal, and a hot rush of 
anger seized him as he looked upon the pathetic 
young face and realized what life meant to her and 
to her future. 

• So deeply moved and touched was he by the 
certain knowledge of the girl’s sorrow, that the 
ordeal he was called upon to bear this night was 
weakened and made simple in consequence. Never 
in the days of those old miserable moods, back in 
his life with John Prinsep, and in the years that 
followed, could Gavin have dreamed that an hour 
would come when he would find himself seated 


200 


FACE TO FACE. 


at the same table with the father who had so cruelly 
disowned him, he himself treating the strange cir¬ 
cumstances as coldly, as calmly, as unconcernedly 
as the greatest stranger to the truth might have 
done. Yet such was the case, and for this wonder¬ 
ful thing Gavin knew he had to thank the young 
creature who sat beside him, so unconscious of her 
power over his heart, so gentle, sweet, and inno¬ 
cently dangerous to his life’s hopes and dreams, 
Gavin found himself meeting the eyes of the man 
opposite to him quite easily. 

Lord Glastonbury’s face was one that few had 
tried to read. It was a handsome face, worn, cyni¬ 
cal, attractive; but it was a face from which the 
warmth of life itself seemed to have been drawn 
long ago. The color had faded from the skin, 
from the clean-shaved lips; only the eyes retained 
their color and their fire. Conversation did not 
languish at this small dinner. Gavin found himself 
talking as he had never talked before. The gift of 
eloquence seemed to have been given him. All 
the wealth of his past years of study and cultiva¬ 
tion was drawn upon in this moment. He felt 
himself the equal of the man who had despised and 
denied him. In truth, as the hours wore away, it 
became apparent, even to the two women who list¬ 
ened to what was being said, without grasping fully 


FACE TO FACE. 


201 


the depth or significance of the matter discussed, 
that this comparatively unknown man was superior 
in knowledge to the great Lord Glastonbury him¬ 
self. 

They spoke of many things, and many languages 
were introduced. Gavin's mind went back to those 
old days in the rectory school-room when John 
Prinsep had put into the fresh young brain all that 
his own brain and education had to give, and when 
he had prophesied great things for this brilliant 
pupil. 

A mist of unshed tears came over Gavin's eyes 
as he recalled this dear, faithful, sweet-minded old 
man, who had given him more than a father’s love 
and care, and a sort of new hardness and resent¬ 
ment was born in his thoughts for the man sitting 
opposite to him who had turned from his innocent 
child so wantonly, and as wantonly had darkened 
a boyhood and a manhood by his relentless anger 
and suggestion of dishonor. 

Once when Dennison had quoted from some old 
but rare book, Lord Glastonbury looked at him 
direct. 

“Your erudition is remarkable, Mr. Dennison. 
Your university days have something more than 
a good sporting record to boast of. Are you an 
Oxford or a Cambridge man?” 


202 


FACE TO FACE. 


“I have never seen either university, save from 
the outside, Lord Glastonbury,” the young man 
replied, coldly. “Such knowledge as I have I got 
from my only master, a certain old country clergy¬ 
man who, God rest his soul, is just dead. My 
reading has been comprehensive; then I have 
traveled also, and have had much opportunity for 
gathering information. I was a tutor for several 
years.” 

“An arduous life,” the Earl said, with courtesy, 
but with equal coldness. “I congratulate you and 
society in general on your emergence from such a 
career. We have too few men of your calibre. I 
suppose a parliamentary life has never appealed to 
you?” 

Gavin shook his head. 

“Circumstances have never led me to even within 
reasonable distance of imagining such a thing.” 
His voice was still cold, but he spoke with the 
greatest ease. 

“Why not contemplate it now?” asked Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest, gaily. “Do you know I have made a great 
discovery, Lord Glastonbury; it is, no doubt, only 
my fancy, but I do assure you I trace a great re¬ 
semblance in Mr. Dennison to yourself. Do you 
see what I mean, Hetta? The shape of the face 
is so wonderfully alike, and then the voice! Mr. 


FACE TO FACE. 


203 


Dennison, I hope you are aware I am paying you 
an enormous compliment, but your voice at times 
sounds to me like an echo of Lord Glastonbury’s 
voice.” 

It was Hetta’s eyes that noted the hot flush that 
dyed Dennison’s face, which was followed by a 
pallor that made him worn and old; but before 
either man could make a reply to Mrs. Tempest’s 
speech, or Hetta could fully realize the emotion 
that had swept across Dennison so powerfully there 
came an unexpected addition to the dinner party 
in the person of Herrick, who opened the door 
and walked in as unconcernedly as though he had 
parted from his wife in the morning, instead of 
having been absent a period of time bordering on 
several months. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 

That night was destined to be one marked for¬ 
ever in Hetta’s memory, even as it was marked in 
Gavin’s. At sight of her husband she had become 
a changed creature; she was beautiful beyond de¬ 
scription in her innocent delight at seeing him 
again. It touched the hearts of the three who 
watched her greeting of Herrick. She had risen 
with the abandon of a child, and had flung herself 
into his arms with a cry of happiness and afterwards 
she had remembered she was not alone, and had 
apologized with hot blushes. 

“I—I have not seen him for such a long time,” 
she said, and she looked at Lord Glastonbury as 
she spoke, as being the eldest and most important 
person present. 

Herrick seemed to be in high spirits. He had 
accepted his wife’s sweet welcome in a complacent 
mood,'and not even the presence of his aunt’s 
guests, neither of whom were men he cared about, 
could upset his serenity. As for Mrs. Tempest, she 
was radiantly pleased to see her “boy” again. 

“I feel quite inclined to be sentimental and to 

( 204 ) 


“MY LORD” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 205 

sing, ‘Oh, Willie we have missed you/ only I know 
my Will does not appreciate music; besides, I must 
be more practical. Will, please order your dinner. 
I suppose you are as hungry as a hunter.” 

But it appeared that Sir William had dined, and 
in a very little while the three men joined the 
ladies in the drawing-room. 

Hetta’s delight at seeing her husband gave Mrs. 
Tempest a pang. 

“And all this time when she has been so sweet 
and brave, she has been dying to see him. Ah! I 
expect now Will has come home, my little invalid 
will soon be well again.” 

Gavin had a double sensation in meeting Her¬ 
rick. He was relieved that a third person had 
arrived to break the horrible tension of that quarter 
of an hour he and Lord Glastonbury would have 
been compelled to spend alone after dinner, but 
Sir William's coming brought a sharp pain with it. 
Hetta’s joy at sight of him recalled Gavin with 
one touch to the bitter reality of the case. 

She was to him the loveliest, most desirable, most 
dear of earthly creatures, yet she could never be 
dearer to him than this; and even were she free, 
the love she gave this other would have built a 
barrier between them probably forever. 

With the discernment that comes with love, he 
read beneath the surface of Herrick’s good- 
humored manner, and he saw that the man was 


206 “MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 

restless and anxious too. The lightness of his man¬ 
ner was assumed perhaps for the first time in his 
life. 

“Something has happened to touch him person¬ 
ally ,” Dennison said to himself, with contempt for 
Herrick’s supreme selfishness springing into being 
almost naturally. “She does not see that anything 
is wrong, neither does Mrs. Tempest, but”—and 
here Gavin was guilty of a very cynical thought— 
“but I fancy it can only be a necessity that has 
brought him home in this unexpected way.” 

The relief Gavin felt in Sir William’s arrival, in 
one sense, was not shared 'by Lord Glastonbury. 
The statesman and older man had absolutely no 
sympathy for a flaneur such as Herrick had ever 
been, and he grew very cold and distant after Her¬ 
rick’s husband had arrived. He exchanged no 
direct word with Gavin, yet he was conscious of 
every movement the young man made, and he 
listened attentively to all Mrs. Tempest had to tell 
him about her other guest. His face was as mask¬ 
like as ever as he spoke his appreciation of Mr. 
Dennison’s talents. 

“An unusual man,” he said in his deliberate way. 
“Cloudesley’s secretary, you tell me, and a rising 
literary star. Well, he will rise very high before 
he has finished.” 

“I am so glad you like him, dear Lord Glaston¬ 
bury,” Judith Tempest said warmly; “both little 


“MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 207 

Hetta and I are quite fond of Mr. Dennison. By- 
the-way, it is odd, but his name too has a connec¬ 
tion with your family, has it not? I wonder, now, 
if there is any distant kinship between you? That 
would account for the marked resemblance I see.” 

Lord Glastonbury looked across the room to 
where Gavin was standing glancing at a book. Sir 
William had drawn his wife into an inner room 
and was talking rapidly. It was evident he had 
something very important to say to her. Gavin 
had wandered away from that inner room and was 
standing apparently lost in contemplation of his 
book, whilst this little conversation was passing 
between Mrs. Tempest and her distinguished guest. 
Lord Glastonbury paused a moment while his eye 
rested on the distant figure, with an expression 
that would have been wholly impossible to describe. 

“Why not ask Mr. Dennison to give you his 
family history,” he said grimly, and he raised his 
voice a little. “It may be as you say, that his 
ancestors and mine were once linked in kinship. 
If so, the honor lies on my side.” He rose here as 
though moved by some uncontrollable emotion, 
and crossed the room in his slow, stately way. 

“Mrs. Tempest has suggested to me a theory that 
may seem allied to a possibility, Mr. Dennison,” 
he said in slow, distinct tones. “She has, as you 
heard at dinner-time, traced a likeness in your 
physique and mine; now she has further discovered 


208 “MY LORD,” HE) SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 

a connection in our names. Dennison has a place 
in my many names, as perhaps you are aware. Now, 
if I may presume to question, may I ask if you 
happen to know if your father is any way related 
to the Glastonbury family?” 

Gavin turned; he put down the book he held 
quietly. 

“My lord,” he said, firmly and coldly, “I have 
no father, no family, not a living creature on earth 
whom I can claim as being my kin. I am a name¬ 
less man. What I am I owe to the good creature 
whom I saw laid in the grave a few sad months 
ago. In John Prinsep I had my all—he was my 
father, my guide, my friend—” 

Lord Glastonbury stretched out his hand; it was 
a gesture almost of pain. 

“Let me ask your pardon,” he said, and now his 
voice was broken and hoarse. “I have trespassed 
unknowingly in questioning you as I have done. 
I—beg you will give me your hand, Mr. Dennison. 
I am leaving,” he added more hurriedly, as he saw 
Gavin hesitate. “This will not be farewell, I hope,” 
he went on, as the young man held out his hand, 
and it was clasped. “You know, doubtless, where 
I am to be found. I deny myself to most people, 
but you shall always be welcome.” His fingers 
closed as in a grip over the hand he held, then 
before the hot emotion had had time to die away 
from Gavin’s heart and brain, he had turned and 



Lord Glastonbury looked at him keenly. 









“MY LORD,” HE) SAID, “I HAVE) NO FATHER.” 209 

was bidding Mrs. Tempest “good-night,” with his 
inimitable courtesy. 

“You have made a rare conquest, Mr. Dennison,” 
Judith said, as the door closed on that tall, aristo¬ 
cratic form. “I have never known Lord Glaston¬ 
bury to be so deeply interested in anyone as he is 
in you. I hope you will cultivate his acquaintance. 
It is not merely that he is useful in a worldly sense, 
but he is a great man in his way, and, I fear a 
not very happy one. Oh! you are not going, too! 
I must have a chat with you, and Hetta will sing.” 

“I have work to do,” Gavin said, wearily. He 
had thought himself so strong, so cold, so proud, 
but to-night’s emotions had left him weak and 
worn. Besides, his ear had caught sounds of angry 
words from within that inner room, and somehow 
he felt, rather than knew, that Hetta’s joy was gone, 
and that she was shedding tears, and his endurance 
would not go to the length of bearing this. 

As he was taking his departure, Herrick emerged 
from the dim light of the alcove. His face was 
very dark and angry. 

“I am going your way, I think,” he said to Gavin. 
He kissed Mrs. Tempest hurriedly. “Good-night, 
aunt Judie. I must be off now; I will run in early 
in the morning. I have any amount of letters to 
write to-night.” 

“That is something quite new, Will,” Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest said with a nervous laugh. 


210 “MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 

She was instantly conscious that there was trou¬ 
ble of some sort; but she was far too tactful to show 
her anxiety, or to press him to remain, although 
she had, of course, imagined he had come to stay 
a few days at least. She waited even a good five 
minutes after the young men had gone before she 
went into the inner room to find Hetta. She too, 
felt that the girl was weeping, and she wanted her 
to have time to recover before seeking her. 

“What is it?” her tender heart asked more than 
once, as she stood there. She had seen a startling 
difference in Herrick when he said “good-bye.” 
Like Gavin, she at once scented a personal trouble, 
and of no light nature. 

After pausing a while, moving about gathering 
up her papers, her gloves, her fan, preparatory to 
going upstairs, she moved at last into the inner 
room, and as she saw that it was empty, she was 
conscious of a blow. It was no small quarrel that 
had driven Hetta away from the tender sympathy 
of her embrace. The trouble promised to be greater 
even than she had feared. Judith stooped and 
picked up a little lace handkerchief from the floor 
at her feet, dropped by the girl in her flight to 
solitude. It was wet with tears, and fragile as it 
was, lay heavy in her hand, a symbol of the heart 
from which these tears had been wrung. 

“Ah,” Mrs. Tempest said to herself, with a sigh 
that was laden itself with tears, “thank Heaven my 


“MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 211 

poor little Hetta’s father lies in his grave; he is 
at least spared the suffering of watching his bimbo’s 
heart break slowly but surely! How I dreaded 
this! and yet how powerless I have been to prevent 
it. Will will play with Hetta’s heart as lightly as 
he has played with toys in his childhood. To stand 
by and do nothing is terrible, yet to speak, to try 
and show him the meaning of duty, of responsi¬ 
bility seems almost useless— 

Softly the gentle-hearted woman went up the 
stairs to her room. Outside the door of Hetta’s 
room she paused; but all was silent, so with another 
sigh, she passed onwards. 

It was not till nearly a week later that Judith 
Tempest knew what had happened between Hetta 
and her husband that evening of his return. The 
girl had left her early the next day. 

“I must go to> Herrickbourne,” she said in ex¬ 
planation. “Will wishes it.” 

Mrs. Tempest let her go without protest. 

“Shall I accompany you, darling?” was all she 
asked, ignoring the poor pale face, with its dark 
tear stains, but Hetta shook her head. 

“If you will forgive me, dear Aunt Judie,” she 
said, “I think I had better go by myself.” 

They parted therefore without any further word, 
and there was silence between them till Hetta wrote. 


212 “MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 

Mrs. Tempest was growing very anxious when this 
letter reached her. 

“I have wanted to speak to you so much all this 
week, dearest and tenderest friend,” was what the 
girl said in her letter; “but when things are very 
simple to say, somehow they seem to be hardest. 
Perhaps you will guess some of the truth. Yes, 
I am very, very unhappy. Oh! far more unhappy 
than I had ever dreamed it possible I could be 
after my other sorrow. The words Will said to 
me the night before I left you ring in my ears 
perpetually. I had to come away by myself to try 
and think it all out, to try and see a way clear out 
of this horrible darkness. I suppose I have been 
only a silly child all this time, or I should have 
prepared myself to know my happiness could not 
last. 

“Even now I cannot, cannot believe that it is 
broken and broken so terribly. Perhaps Will was 
only angry when he said he had ruined himself in 
marrying me. I have tried to think it was only 
anger, but dear, dear Aunt Judie, you see it is so 
true. I had nothing to give him, nothing but my 
heart and my love, and those do not count for 
much, I fear, in real hard life. Will was angry 
with me because I had given back to Anne the 
money poor Mrs. Lorrimer wished me to have. 
He frightened me, he was so angry. I did not 
dream he could object to what we had done. I 


“MY LORD,” HE SAID, “I HAVE NO FATHER.” 213 


showed him Anne’s cruel letter to me, but he only 
laughed at it, and called me a fool, and then he 
said words which I did not understand, but which 
rend my heart when I remember them. 

“Oh! dearest Aunt Judie, I feel very tired and 
heart-weary. You know how I love Will, how I 
long to prove myself worthy to be his wife, yet you 
see how constantly I fail. Does Will love me any 
longer—or has he ever loved me? These are the 
questions that are beating into my brain, that seem 
to eat my life away. I am bewildered with trouble. 
I could not take this money from Anne; it seems 
cruel, but I hope I shall never see Anne again, 
never even have communication with her. Yet 
Will seemed in great trouble; he seems to- have 
built on this money, and he told me we were ruined 
if we did not get it. I am so grieved to bring my 
trouble to you; I have fought it alone all this week, 
but it has conquered me, and so I come to you. 
Help me! Oh! help me to get back Will’s love. 
If I have done wrong I will beg forgiveness on my 
knees. I do 1 not feel I have done wrong, but some 
of the fault must be mine.” Here the letter broke 
off as though the writer could go no further. Then 
in a blurred, indistinct way came a few more words: 
“Oh! Aunt Judie, I love him, I love him. Ask 
him to be kind to me or I die, 

“Your loving little, 

HETTA.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HETTA’S greatest sorrow. 

Judith Tempest’s reply to that heartbroken little 
letter was given to Hetta in twofold fashion. She 
did not content herself merely by writing imme¬ 
diately a long, tender letter full of every gentle, 
consoling, and wise word one good woman could 
give another; she sent for Herrick to come to her. 

“Heaven knows if I shall do good, or only greater 
evil,” she said to herself sadly enough, as she 
penned a few cold words to the man both Hetta 
and she loved so well, and so unwisely; “but I 
cannot remain silent. Will has some respect and 
consideration for me, I think; at any rate I must 
try and do something.” 

Herrick responded to her note at once. He had 
made it a rule to' pay all due attention to Mrs. 
Tempest’s wishes. In his curious way, which was 
so wholly selfish, he had a liking for this widow of 
his uncle. As has been shown, he was essentially 
a man who set a value on what the world valued. 
While Hetta was young, fresh and beautiful, she 
had a certain place in his estimation, and Judith 

( 214 ) 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


215 


Tempest because of her popularity and her renown 
as a woman famous for her charm and beauty, 
shared with Hetta this honor. 

Apart from this, however, there was the knowl¬ 
edge of the money Judith had in her possession 
to bequeath, and this was a potent reason for put¬ 
ting himself a little on one side occasionally. 

He was perfectly aware, of course, that Mrs. 
Tempest was going to talk to him about his domes¬ 
tic affairs; probably also about his extravagance. 
In fact, Herrick rather wanted the last subject to be 
broached, as he desired to have certain annoyances 
settled by his aunt; a matter he had no doubt what¬ 
ever would be comfortably arranged. 

“Here I am—quite ready for your scolding,” he 
said in his frank, boyish way, as soon as he entered 
Judith’s room. He flung himself into a chair, and 
smiled at the perplexed, anxious face opposite. 
“Confess now, Aunt Judie. You are longing to 
box my ears.” 

Judith stifled a sigh. The impossibility, the 
hopelessness of dealing with this nature—of seeking 
for some grain or gleam of humanity in this splen¬ 
did, happy, healthy creature, came to her as it had 
never come before. 

“I want to touch your heart, if I can, Will, dear,” 
she answered him, in a low voice involuntarily, as 
it were. 

Herrick laughed. 


216 


HETTA’S greatest sorrow. 


“Quite useless!” he said, good-humoredly. “You 
know, long ago, you used to say you did not be¬ 
lieve I had a heart to lose—well, I will add to this, 
and say I don’t believe I have a heart to touch,” 
he bent his head a little to sniff the flower in his 
buttonhole—a characteristic trick with him—and 
his face took a slightly hard look. “I suppose 
Hetta has been giving you a catalogue of her 
woes?” he said, stifling a yawn, after a little pause. 

Mrs. Tempest had taken up some fancy needle¬ 
work, but her stitches were going all astray. 

“Hetta is very unhappy, Will,” she said, when 
she spoke. 

Sir William nodded his head. 

“Yes, I suppose she is,” he said, indifferently; 
he paused a moment. “Hetta is one of those sort 
of women who must be unhappy, Aunt Judie,” he 
said, then, reflectively. “I know heaps like her. 
She must have her grievance—life would not be 
life without it.” 

Mrs. Tempest’s needle ran through the cambric 
she held in very unsteady fashion. 

“I think,” she said slowly, and with a reproach 
greater than she even was aware of hardening her 
voice, “I think I never saw a happier, brighter, 
merrier girl than Hetta was when first I met her. 
I know perfectly well the kind of women you speak 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


217 


of, Will, and I grant you such women do exist, 
but you do Hetta an injustice when you class her 
among them.” She put her work down, suddenly. 
“Will, are you growing tired of this child?” she 
asked him, quietly. “You can speak plainly to me, 
you know. I don’t know that I have the right 
to ask so sorrowful a question, but I feel I must 
know, so that I may see best how to advise—how 
to—act.” 

Sir William looked at her sharply out of his hand¬ 
some eyes. Her last three words conveyed a wrong 
impression to him. Irritated and bored as he was 
by Hetta, by his marriage tie altogether, he felt 
it was not the moment to speak the truth; a com¬ 
promise was infinitely more satisfactory. Besides 
he was only half a scoundrel. He was annoyed 
with Hetta, and he was capable of cruelty to her 
now or at any time; but he was also perfectly well 
aware that he would have been just as annoyed 
and cruel to any other woman who had chanced to 
be his wife. 

Hetta was at any rate submissive and adoring, 
and though she might weep floods he could always 
keep her at a distance, a matter he might have 
found very difficult with another kind of woman— 
with Anne for instance. He was passing through 
a new phase of anger with Anne also at this mo- 


218 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


ment. Hetta, of course, had behaved like a “con¬ 
founded little fool” in relinquishing her claim to 
the money Anne’s mother has bequeathed her; but 
Anne he considered, was not treating him very well 
in allowing this matter to be settled so much to 
his disadvantage. 

It was not in the least what he had expected 
from Anne, imagining as he did that, despite her 
strained and cold manner with him, the passion of 
her love for him was as great, if not greater than 
ever. He did not intend to sit down quietly and 
let Hetta’s pride rob him of such a large sum of 
money; but there must be a lapse of time before 
he could touch this money, and in the meanwhile 
his necessities were not only pressing but tremen¬ 
dous, and it was from Mrs. Tempest he must obtain 
immediate relief. It behoved him, therefore, to 
conciliate Judith as quickly as possible. 

“Dear Aunt Judie,” he said, in his frankest way, 
“I don’t pose to be any better than any other man, 
nor do I think I am any worse than thousands of 
everyday men. I care for Hetta very much, but 
she has the faults of a child, and she does not think 
how awfully trying perpetual woe and weeping is 
to a man. I was as sorry as anything when the 
poor old Colonel died, still, I could not sit in sack¬ 
cloth and ashes all my life mourning for him, now, 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


219 


could I? Well, Hetta has been weeping for her 
father for nearly a year now, and it gets a bit 
wearisome. We men, you know,” Herrick said 
with his ready laugh and his air of delightful can¬ 
dor, “we men are all selfish beasts, especially when 
we happen to be particularly strong and healthy. 
You might just give Hetta a tip not to be so 
mournful. She has cried so much she has almost 
spoiled her eyes. I never can understand why you 
women are so deucedly fond of tears; they knock 
your looks all to little bits, and they never do any 
good you know.” 

Judith Tempest smiled though she sighed. She 
was, however, impressed by what he said, and she 
knew the world well enough to imagine Sir William 
was quite sincere. 

“We women cling to many foolish customs, 
Will,” she said softly, when she spoke. “I suppose 
as long as human nature is human nature we shall 
always find relief in tears. But you have taken a 
load from my heart. Hetta is, as you say, only a 
child, but she is beginning to learn the lesson of 
life, and oh! Will dear, she is so fond of you, and 
suffers so much when she thinks you are angry. 
Will you not run down to Herrickbourne and see 
her? or let her come up to you?” 

“I will send her a wire when I leave you. She 


220 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


had better come to town. I am full of odds and 
ends of business, and cannot get away very easily." 

Mrs. Tempest knew perfectly well what this 
“business" meant. 

“Hetta said something in her letter about this 
Lorrimer money. You are angry with her because 
she has decided, of course, not to take it." ' 

“I don’t see the ‘of course’ very clearly,’’ Herrick 
said, rising as he spoke, and doing his best to curb 
his irritation. “Mrs. Lorrimer was Hetta’s step¬ 
mother, she derived immense social advantage from 
her marriage with Colonel Lorrimer; there seems 
to me nothing preposterous in the fact that at her 
death she should leave something to Hetta.’’ 

Mrs. Tempest looked troubled. 

“It was Anne who made it impossible for Hetta 
to have anything to do with the matter. Her letter 
was really most hard for Hetta to bear. You can¬ 
not surely wish your wife to be subjected to such 
accusations as this letter contained?’’ 

Herrick laughed smoothly. 

“My dear Aunt Judie,’’ he said, in an amused 
sort of way, “that letter was all part of a little 
drama. Anne hates Hetta, and for a very good 
reason of her own, a reason with which her 
mother’s money has no sort of connection what¬ 
ever.’’ 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


221 


Mrs. Tempest was silent. There came to her 
mind in that moment those words of fear and doubt 
that poor Colonel Lorrimer had spoken to her that 
bygone day on the ice, when he had opened his 
heart to her in confidence. 

She could not say why it was this memory should 
have come to her now, but it came surely enough, 
and added to the words Herrick had just spoken, 
it made her pained and uneasy too. She changed 
the subject from Anne hurriedly; why also she did 
this she could not have explained very clearly, and 
she began instead to speak of his business. 

“You have lost money at the tables ?” she asked 
him quite directly. 

Herrick confessed that this was the case. 

“I had such confounded luck,” he said in ex¬ 
planation, “and I began so well too! The usual 
story!” 

Mrs. Tempest looked and felt grave. 

“You know, Will, you are not in a position to 
gamble, even ever so little.” 

Sir William moved himself impatiently. What 
on earth was the use of her telling him this well 
known fact? 

“I simply cannot help gambling, Aunt Judie,” 
he said, putting all the charm of which he was 
capable into his delightful frank voice and manner. 


222 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


Judith looked at him and smiled faintly. She 
knew her folly in loving him, but she could not 
resist the charm any the more for realizing her folly. 

“How much have you lost, Will?” she asked him, 
gently. 

He hesitated a moment and then gave her a 
sum which was just half of what he really owed; 
it was sufficiently large to make Judith start and 
turn pale. 

“Oh! Will!” she said, and her voice was eloquent 
with reproach. 

He came across the room and kissed her. 

“I told you to box my ears, you know!” he said, 
half laughingly, half seriously. 

Mrs. Tempest kissed him back, but he saw she 
was greatly perturbed. In fact, for the moment, 
she saw no way of obtaining so large a sum of 
ready money. 

“You have to meet this immediately?” she asked. 

Herrick nodded his head. 

“I am afraid I must; but look, Aunt Judie, don’t 
you bother, I can manage somehow.” 

Mrs. Tempest kissed him with a touch of passion. 

“You know you are never a bother, dear,” she 
said, and then she dropped into a business manner, 
and went into the matter as fully as she could. 

Herrick did not think it worth while to tell her 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


223 


that he had already borrowed money on Hetta’s 
small town house, and that Herrickbourne was 
heavily mortgaged. He knew he could not get all 
he wanted out of this one quarter, but he looked to 
Anne to set him on his legs again. 

When he parted from his aunt that day, it was 
with a cheque for several hundreds in his pocket, 
which would come in most usefully for petty cash, 
and with an understanding that he was to meet 
Judith at her lawyer’s on the morrow, and arrange 
to get together the money he needed somehow. 

“And you will telegraph to Hetta, dear, will 
you not?” Mrs*. Tempest had asked, as they parted. 

Herrick was in a radiant humor. 

“I will bring her up at once, poor baby,” he said 
gaily. “I will send a wire now.” 

A promise he fulfilled, to the startling joy of the 
poor desolate girl down at Herrickbourne, who 
was living in a dream of misery, till some words 
of comfort should reach her from Judith. It was 
a pale, tear-stained, yet pathetically lovely creature 
who obeyed that command, and journeyed up to 
London to join Herrick, and as Hetta looked on 
her handsome husband once more, and realized 
his anger was gone, she tried to soar once again 
into the realms of that brief joyous happiness which 
had been hers, when first her life had been linked 
to his. 


224 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


But though the old glamour returned, and Her¬ 
rick’s good humor gave her relief instead of misery, 
the blow he had struck her heart had been too 
crushing to pass wholly away. She loved still, 
perhaps in a sense more passionately, more in¬ 
tensely than before; but a strange feeling came 
upon Hetta in this hour of reunion with her hus¬ 
band, a feeling that though she loved still, her love 
was given to something that had passed—to an 
illusion, to a remembrance of some creature who 
had seemed to her once a very god of goodness 
and beauty, but who, by his own doing had stripped 
himself of all that was true, and good and beautiful, 
and shown himself as pitifully selfish, cruel, and 
even unworthy. 

Like the sweet, honest creature she was, Hetta 
fought hard and constantly with herself to bring 
an end to this strange, sad thing. She felt as if 
she were committing some wrong to be so acutely 
conscious of Herrick’s wrong-doing*, but as Judith 
had said, the girl was learning the lesson of life 
each day, each hour she lived now, and as this 
lesson was unfolded before her eyes, as the knowl¬ 
edge of what was right and what was crooked, 
what was good and what was evil was put before 
her, it was impossible even for such faith as Hetta’s 
to live unshaken against such overwhelming proof 


HETTA’S GREATEST SORROW. 


225 


of the unworthiness of the man in whom she tried, 
and desired still, to believe as she had believed. 

She came back to her little house, and took up 
her daily life with Herrick, but she knew herself 
to be a changed woman, and the sorrow that had 
rent her young- heart when her father had gone 
to the grave, and her eagerly wished for child had 
been born to her dead, was not greater, if so great, 
as the sorrow that ate into her heart as she realized 
the true nature of the man whom she had married. 
Life had its constant troubles for Hetta in the sum¬ 
mer weeks that followed, but no trouble was so 
vivid, so painful to her as the knowledge that her 
love for Herrick was dead; killed by his own doing; 
killed never to be born again. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A SUCCESSFUL, MAN. 

Fame came to Gavin Dennison in those summer 
days in leaps and bounds. His book had been 
brought out about Easter time, and had met with 
instantaneous success. The reviewers hailed the 
new writer with enthusiasm, and society rushed to 
follow with adulation and hospitality. Of his own 
will Dennison would not have seceded from his 
secretarial duties with Sir George Cloudesley, but 
Sir George himself insisted that the young man 
should retire from the work, and devote himself 
to his literary offers, which quickly began to flow In. 

Gavin parted from his friend and patron with 
sincere regret. The time he had spent in office 
with Sir George had been a time marked by every¬ 
thing that had been pleasant and, in a sense, life- 
giving to the young man. His fame was, in fact, 
to Gavin a sensation as though he had been bom 
for the first time. 

With the world at his feet, craving for his friend¬ 
ship, his acquaintance, even for a word, or nod, his 
old bitter resentment went from him. If he were 
cynical, that was not to be wondered at; but his 
( 226 ) 


A SUCCESSFUL/ MAN. 


227 


cynicism was good-humored, not bitter. He played 
with the world as he liked, sometimes mingling in 
it, but oftener absenting himself. He was called 
a difficult man by society, and in truth he responded 
but seldom to the claims society would have made 
upon him. He dined out rarely, and when he did 
it was with the few he called his friends. He was, 
perhaps, more constant in his attention to Judith 
Tempest than to anyone else. 

Hetta had been in a slight degree wounded by 
Dennison’s attitude towards herself. 

On two occasions she had asked him to dinner 
quietly, and both invitations had been refused. She 
would have dismissed the matter from her mind 
probably, but Dennison’s refusal irritated Herrick, 
who, following his usual custom, only sought the 
other man because the world sought him. 

“Gives himself a deuced lot of airs!” he said to 
Hetta, when Dennison’s second letter had arrived, 
containing an invitation declined. 

Then Herrick had indulged in his usual sneer 
(his good-humored tolerance of Hetta’s society had 
not lasted long). He sneered very often at Hetta 
during those days of the London season. 

“I am not surprised people don’t care to come 
to this house; it is about as amusing as a tomb,” 
he said, roughly; and though Hetta blushed hotly 
at such reproach, she said nothing. 


228 


A SUCCESSFUL MAN. 


“I am sorry Mr. Dennison cannot come,” was 
her thought to herself. “It would have been pleas¬ 
ant to meet him; it would have been a change too.” 

For Hetta had another daily cross to bear in the 
class of people Herrick insisted on being intimate 
with. They were people with whom Hetta had not 
one single thing in common—smart men and 
women of the racing world—women who wore very 
striking clothes, spoke in a slangy manner, and 
were always indulging in some athletic amusement. 

Lady Herrick was voted exceedingly dull and 
slow by these friends of her husband’s. Hetta was 
not strong enough to indulge in long bicycle rides, 
or in any of the fashionable sport of the moment; 
besides, she was a little old-fashioned both in nature 
and training, and things that delighted Herrick 
were simply impossible to her. 

His sneers had hurt her a little at first, but time 
brings everything to a level, and in a little while 
Hetta forgot to resent her husband’s remarks. She 
was truly sorry not to have seen Gavin Dennison. 
She wanted to tell him how much she had loved his 
book. She could not believe he was spoiled, as 
Herrick declared, by his success; he had always 
seemed to her so unusually refined—the last man 
in the world to give himself airs. Far, very, very 
far from Hetta’s pure gentle mind was the knowl¬ 
edge of the true reason why Dennison would not 
get foot in her house. 


A SUCCESSFUL MAN. 


229 


“It is like putting a knife into my heart when I 
deny myself this; still, I must do it!” he said, dog¬ 
gedly, to himself. “Each time I meet her the power 
she holds over me grows stronger and deeper. In 
time, perhaps, I may live this down, but just now 
I cannot meet her. She has that written in her 
beautiful child’s eyes that bring tears of blood 
from my heart. What cruel destiny to give that 
rare and tender flower to the care of a man who 
tramples each day upon its blossom, and must 
wither it in time to its very core.” 

It was the sight of Hetta’s pathetic loveliness 
that drove him so frequently out of London. He 
saw her constantly driving through the crowded 
streets in her carriage, her sweet, pale face, with 
its starlike eyes and wistful lips seeming to him 
like some spirit from another world. He shunned 
all places where he could meet her. He desired 
even not to hear her name, and this eventually 
drove him from visiting Mrs. Tempest, for to speak 
of Hetta was, of course, Judith’s first task. He got 
into the habit of burying himself down in the old 
Rectory garden, where his happy, yet most unhappy 
boyhood had been spent. 

Mrs. Prinsep welcomed him as her most beloved 
boy, and indeed none of her own sons gave her the 
attention and remembrance that Gavin did. He 
told no one of his visits to his old home, yet, 


230 


A SUCCESSFUL MAN. 


though he was utterly unaware of it, there were 
two people who were cognizant of his hiding-place, 
two people who, working from such different mo¬ 
tives, had set themselves the task of following each 
move in the life of this young man, who a year or 
so ago had been so utterly alone in the world. 

The man who had denied to the poor innocent 
child the right of its paternity so many years ago, 
was one of these who watched so eagerly all that 
Dennison did, watched and waited, hoping, he 
hardly knew for what. The other silent follower 
of Gavin’s life was Anne. Though weeks had gone 
since they had met and spoken, though Anne her¬ 
self had all but passed from his memory since 
mourning for her mother kept her out of the world, 
the desire, the determination that had framed itself 
into Anne Foster’s heart concerning a future with 
this man had cynly grown greater and stronger 
since they had been*separated, and when it came to 
her that Gavin was surely one who was likely to 
turn from society and pleasure in solitude, more¬ 
over, when she had thoroughly realized where it 
was that he turned for solitude, the pathway of 
Anne’s hope looked clear enough. It was easy to 
follow him down into the calm of the summer coun¬ 
try, easier still to* work a friendship with the old 
rector’s wife, and from this to* the final goal, Anne 
resolved the way should be easy too! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 

Anne had been living- a strangely isolated life 
during the months that followed her mother’s death. 
She established herself at Turret Teignton, and 
though she disappeared occasionally for two or 
three days at a time, her servants had begun to 
think she had resolved to settle down definitely in 
the old house, when one morning she made known 
to all whom it might concern that she had resolved 
to sell Turret Teignton, and would require no ret¬ 
inue of servants for the moment. 

Following on this announcement she had ordered 
her maid to pack her boxes, and she had departed 
to a little country place in one of the midland coun¬ 
ties, where she established herself and her belong¬ 
ings in a pretty little furnished house adjacent to 
the church and the old-fashioned Rectory. She 
had purposely avoided seeing much of Mrs. Tem¬ 
pest during these months. First of all, Anne had 
no desire to come in contact with Hetta, and this 
was more or less a certainty if she visited Judith; 
secondly, the part Anne was playing in Hetta’s life 

( 231 ) 


232 


ANNE) FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


was one that required secrecy to bring it to a suc¬ 
cessful issue, and this secrecy could hardly have 
been maintained had she gone, as Mrs. Tempest 
wished, as a guest to that big old house in Eaton 
Square. 

Anne was sorry to be separated from her inti¬ 
macy with Judith; in her odd way she really liked 
Herrick’s aunt, and she was yet still keenly alive 
to the social advantage attached to a close intimacy 
with such a woman, but she was even prepared to 
sacrifice her own ambition in her eagerness to bring 
ruin, unhappiness, and, if possible, shame on the 
head of the girl she hated. Hetta’s dignified re¬ 
fusal to accept her harsh insults, or to be associated 
even to the extent of a farthing with the money 
Mrs. Lorrimer had bequeathed her, was a great 
cause of anger and mortification to Anne, and she 
felt that this action of hers must have given a jar 
to Judith Tempest and any others who might have 
known of it. 

She soon, however, realized a grim satisfaction 
to herself out of the matter. What Hetta refused, 
Herrick was ready to jump at. She had imme¬ 
diately put herself in communication with him when 
she had received Hetta’s decision, conveyed 
through a lawyer’s letter, and those visits that had 
taken her periodically away from Turret Teignton 
had all been associated with meetings with Her- 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


233 


rick in which, blinded by his vanity and his avarice, 
he fell a ready accomplice to her schemes. 

It was Anne who found the larger sum he re¬ 
quired to meet his gambling losses, after he had 
drawn so freely on his aunt; and it was Anne who 
put other gambling speculations into his too ready 
hands, allowing herself to be used temporarily as 
Sir William’s banker. Though she knew there was 
a certain loss to her in these monetary transactions, 
Anne faced this loss calmly. 

She could afford to part with a few thousands on 
risk, whilst for the bulk of the money she obtained 
as security every stick and stone of which Herrick 
or his wife were possessed. It was to Anne that 
the property at Herrickbourne was mortgaged; 
Anne again (though here Sir William was in igno¬ 
rance of the fact) who had advanced money through 
an agent on Hetta’s small town house, and who 
actually held a bill of sale on the furniture. 

Herrick’s capacity for scattering huge sums of 
money was a revelation to Anne, well as she 
imagined she had known him; his extravagance 
was unbounded. He had always been famous for 
his debts and difficulties, but there had hitherto 
been a limit. Now lured by the false thought that 
Anne would be content to give him her life itself 
if he had required it of her, and seeing in the devo¬ 
tion of this wealthy woman a safe haven for all his 


234 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


trouble, he launched out, as Anne intended him to 
do, and there was hardly’a speculation put on the 
market in which Herrick had not a share; not a 
race run on which he did not plunge recklessly. 

The knowledge that this man, who had done 
her such terrible wrong should thus by his will 
drift so completely into her power, gave Anne 
Foster a sense of satisfaction that was almost savage 
in its strength; and yet, though she despised Her¬ 
rick so inimitably, and looked on him as one 
of the basest and meanest of earthly creatures, it 
was on Hetta she lavished her strongest hate. 

It would have been useless for anyone to have 
tried to argue out with Anne the justice or the rea¬ 
son of this hate; useless for anyone to have pointed 
out that never in a single word or action had the 
girl done her a transitory wrong; the hate would 
have lived just the same. Indeed, argument might 
have only embittered her still further. And yet, 
while she was capable of this terrible wrong to 
one creature, her heart was aglow with an emotion 
that was born of the purest, tenderest, most 
womanly feelings for another. 

Her love for Dennison was the one thing that 
made life possible to Anne in these months. She 
had a joy even in loving him secretly. She liked 
to feel that the sympathy between them was so 
strong they had no need of words or explanations. 


ANNE) FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


235 


Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, she had such 
a yearning to be nearer to him at times, that she 
found herself writing to him only for the sake of 
having a few lines scribbled in return, and to see 
him even from a distance she would have traversed 
many miles footsore and weary. 

When she discovered his destination on his fre¬ 
quent absences from town, she made a pilgrimage 
to the old village where he had lived his boyish life. 
Anne’s better self seemed to stir her into new 
beauty, as she found herself in this remote little 
country place. Her plans were quickly made as 
the summer advanced. It had come to her ears, 
in one of her stray visits to the village, that Mrs. 
Prinsep was so happy because Mr. Dennison had 
promised to spend several weeks with her this sum¬ 
mer. 

At the very time when she was beginning to 
sound the attack on Het*ta, by announcing the sale 
of Turret Teignton (and this she knew would be 
a great sorrow to her stepsister), Anne completed 
her arrangements, and established herself in the 
small furnished cottage whose garden ran side by 
side with Mrs. Prinsep’s much-loved garden. 

She had been an inmate of this house nearly a 
fortnight before her eyes were gladdened by the 
sight of the man she loved. She had begun to 
grow disheartened when she saw his luggage being 


236 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


carried from the station up to the Rectory door, 
and that night as she sat at an open window that 
commanded a view of the next garden, she had 
the joy of watching him as he sauntered to and 
fro, smoking and dreaming many thoughts. 

To cultivate an acquaintance with Mrs. Prinsep 
was an easy matter, but Anne wanted to wait her 
time. She looked for an opportunity to bring them 
closer together. She knew he was working hard, 
and her heart and brain seemed tO' work with him. 
It cost her an effort to have to leave this little 
silent paradise and go up to London to conduct 
manipulation of the Herrick scheme of disaster, 
yet she went just the same. A doubting fear, and 
a haunting of that old jealousy for Hetta, where 
Dennison was concerned, drove her to the attack 
anew, but she came back to her little cottage home 
with an eagerness that she could not measure. Her 
maid had long since tired of this strange dismal 
life, and Anne had dismissed her summarily. She 
preferred to have service from some of the people 
in the village, and to be free of curious glances. 
Her deep mourning made her desire for solitude 
most reasonable, and though her tall figure and 
dark picturesque face provoked some comment, 
Anne’s tenancy of the cottage seemed a most ordi¬ 
nary affair. 

It was in August that Dennison became aware 





“ How strange that we should be neighbors ! ” 




















































































































































- ■ 



ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


237 


of her presence so near. They met in the twilight 
out in the country lane. She had long ago coined 
a simple explanation of her presence there. 

“Years ago my mother and I spent a week here,” 
she told him. “I have never forgotten the peace 
and sweetness of this little corner, so now, when my 
heart is tired and' heavy, I have turned to it as a 
resting place. How strange that we should be 
neighbors!” 

The day following and for many a day after Anne 
found herself an inmate of the quaint old Rectory 
and garden. Mrs. Prinsep found her a gentle and 
beautiful woman, and her old eyes quickly read 
through the mystery of Anne’s large dark ones; 
but Gavin saw neither mystery nor explanation. 
He accepted Anne’s presence unquestioningly; 
vaguely, it gave him pleasure. She was harmonious 
in her long clinging black robes. He missed her 
strange picture gowns and her many-colored jewels, 
and sometimes he wondered with half a smile 
whether his kind old friend Sir George Cloudesley 
would ever be made happy by this woman. 

For himself Gavin did not greatly admire Anne; 
he saw the rough edge beneath the veneer, and he 
felt, rather than knew, that this soft-spoken crea¬ 
ture had no love for little Hetta in her heart. He 
remembered the business of her mother’s will too 
clearly to permit him to grow attracted by Anne. 


238 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


He found her clever, however, and it was agreeable 
to spend an hour talking with an intelligent com¬ 
panion after his work; but he did not share Mrs. 
Prinsep’s enthusiasm. 

When his dear old friend spoke of Anne as beau¬ 
tiful, good, and charitable, he looked at the younger 
woman thoughtfully. Was this her real character? 
he would muse sometimes; or was it merely a 
mask? From a literary point of view she inter¬ 
ested him, and his work was fast growing to be 
the most dominant influence in his life. 

Down here in this quiet little village he felt as if 
he had come to the end of his mental struggles. 
The bitterness of that old trouble that he had 
fought against so ceaselessly under these very 
trees, had fallen from him altogether in these past 
few months; ever since that night when chance had 
put him face to face with his father. He knew 
now, though Lord Glastonbury might and probably 
would go to his grave with the truth unconfessed, 
that the weight of shame was no longer commingled 
with the wrong that had been done him and bis 
dead mother. 

He knew more than this; he knew that the proud 
old man would have stretched out his hands will¬ 
ingly to him now, and have called him “son”; but 
though there was satisfaction to the young man 
in this, the hurt to his honor had been too deep, 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


239 


too long to be effaced by the most complete atone¬ 
ment possible. He had none of the old bitterness, 
nevertheless he could not forget nor could he for¬ 
give. Remembrance was a very living thing with 
Gavin. He was soothed into less active thought 
down in this peaceful old home; but not a day, 
hardly an hour went by without the visioned mem¬ 
ory of Hetta and her sweetness rising to his eyes. 

It was in moments such as these that he realized 
he had done a good thing for himself in dividing 
himself utterly from all further acquaintanceship 
with her. The influence of this love-dream upon 
him was far reaching, it touched him in his work, 
in his daily life, in his hope and ambition, and in 
his thoughts for the future. All that was noble, 
powerful and good in his writing was dedicated by 
this love. Hetta dawned in his mind whenever 
some more than usually beautiful creation occupied 
his pen; she lived in all his purest poetry, she was 
the very essence of his genius and his heart, and 
there she would live throned to the end. 

It had cost him a tremendous effort to leave 
London without seeing her, and so strong had been 
the temptation to look on her once more that he 
had taken a cab and had driven half way to her 
house before he had finally conquered his weakness. 
He was glad afterwards he had not gone, for as 
he was driving a little later to the station he met 


240 


ANNE FOSTER IN A NEW PART. 


Herrick’s four-in-hand with a woman of society 
that rumor had already weaved many stories about, 
sitting beside him on the box-seat, the only occu¬ 
pant save the servants of the coach, and apparently 
on very easy terms with her handsome young com¬ 
panion. 

Herrick had caught sight of Dennison, and had 
lifted his whip in salutation though by no means 
in too cordial a fashion, for Sir William had divined 
by this time that he was no favorite with the other 
young man, and Gavin had made a curt salutation 
in return. He resented, for Hetta’s sake, the sight 
of that particular woman sitting beside Herrick. 

Gavin was old-fashioned enough to object to 
much that society permitted. He knew that this 
lady was one who was received everywhere, but 
that did not make her any the more a desirable, or 
even a possible companion for Hetta. If he had 
gone to her this day to take a long farewell, who 
could have said what folly he might not have been 
tempted to commit? His place was far apart from 
her and her life. It was an awful task to force this 
trouble home on himself, but he meant to be strong 
in this. Love, he said to himself wistfully, was a 
poor and pitiful thing if it was not willing and 
eager to sacrifice all that earth could give most dear 
and precious for the sake of love. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 

Another Christmastide had come and gone, and 
another spring was born. Down at Turret Teign- 
ton stranger eyes were watching the trees spring 
into their clear yellow-green clothing, alien hands 
were gathering the violets from under the hedge 
rows, and making the quaint old hall golden with 
the stately daffodils. 

The Lorrimer reign was over and done, and 
many were the thoughts sent by the people on the 
estate to “Miss Hetta”, and many the comments 
as to what she was doing, and how she took the 
news of the sale of her old home. 

No one seemed to hear very much of the girl 
who two short years before had gone to the altar 
with such a happy heart. There were rumors that 
she and her husband had gone abroad, that there 
had been some heavy pecuniary loss, and that Lady 
Herrick was as poor, if not poorer than little Hetta 
Lorrimer had ever been. 

Of Miss Foster there came occasional news. She 
was living in London now, and had bought a 

(241) 


242 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


magnificent house in one of the big smart squares, 
and was one of the most favored and desired women 
of society, so these rumors said. But the tenants 
and servants at Turret Teignton had no interest 
in Anne; they had had too sharp an experience 
with her to care much what she did, or what be¬ 
came of her. 

With Hetta it was a very different matter, and 
dozens of humjble homes would have been thrown 
open in her honor, if only she had paid her accus¬ 
tomed visits. It was generally concluded that she 
must be out of England, or most surely she would 
have been down to lay her remembrance of flowers 
on her father’s grave as she had been wont to do 
in the months following his death. 

From the head keeper others less well informed 
obtained the news that Sir William had most cer¬ 
tainly got into difficulties, for there were bank¬ 
ruptcy proceedings reported in the newspapers, and 
from this the conclusion was drawn that all his 
available property would be required to swell his 
absurdly small assets, and heads were shaken 
doubtfully in consequence. All that the head 
keeper imparted to his comrades was more than 
true. 

Late in the year a bankruptcy petition had been 
filed against Sir William Herrick. The news was 
more astounding to him than the rest of the world. 
He had had rather a bad autumn, it was true. He 


the; day of reckoning. 


243 


had been to Hamburg and to Aix, and money had 
disappeared with even more celerity than usual. Of 
course he had left a mass of debts in town (he had 
made it a principle never to pay a debt under any 
circumstances unless absolutely obliged), but he 
looked to luck at the tables and to his various 
speculations, and more particularly to Anne, to get 
something in hand to pay a trifle on account to 
the most irate of the tradespeople if they threat¬ 
ened to bring their patience to an end. He had 
such absolute confidence in Anne and her devotion. 
They had met in September for one of their curious 
business transactions, just when he was on his way 
from the grouse-shooting to the tables. 

It had struck Herrick then that Anne had grown 
wonderfully older. Her manner, too, was changed. 
She was nervous, mysterious, discomforting. She 
looked as if she had been very ill, or had had some 
great shock. All the late-born admiration Herrick 
had had for her, it need hardly be said, had vanished 
long before. Had she remained aloof from him, 
or had become the wife of another man, she might 
have retained that attraction for any length of time, 
but once he was assured (and certainly in this Anne 
fooled him well!) that he reigned as of old in her 
heart, he regarded her now as carelessly as he had 
done on a former occasion, and found no more 
beauty in her. Indeed, he had transferred his fickle 
fancy to at least three or four other women during 


244 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


the past season, and had spent on these others most 
of the money he had borrowed from Anne. It 
tickled him very much to regard this money in the 
light of a loan. Of course, even if he were to offer 
repayment (a most remote possibility), Anne would 
never accept it, was what he told himself in con¬ 
fidence. 

“She would give me her soul if I asked for it,” 
he said complacently to himself. “Poor old Anne!” 

His face always darkened now when he thought 
of his marriage. Hetta had been a revelation to 
him of late. She had made no definite scenes; there 
had been no tears, no reproaches, no jealousies 
(Herrick rather appreciated jealousy; it was the 
proper accompaniment to his personal attraction, 
he considered), but all the same his wife had man¬ 
aged to let him understand that marriage did not 
signify freedom, at least in the terms he desired, 
and that if he insisted on having this freedom, it 
must be one apart from her, and complete in every 
way. 

Herrick had no desire to have an open separa¬ 
tion from Hetta, only because of the effect it might 
have on his aunt; but nature was too strong in 
him, and at the end of the season he had swung 
himself off to' Cowes, thence to Yorkshire, and 
thence to the continent, all in the train of the 
woman Hetta refused to receive, though she wore 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


245 


a coronet, and was hailed as a queen of beauty by 
the old and the new world. 

That Hetta should have been jealous would have 
been comprehensible to her husband; but that she 
should have objected to this woman on other 
grounds seemed a farce to Herrick. They separ¬ 
ated, however, and Hetta went to spend the sum¬ 
mer months with Judith Tempest at Herrickbourne. 
The girl was yet anything but strong, and Judith 
would have urged her to go abroad, but Hetta al¬ 
ways refused. 

The fact was, that the poor child literally had 
not a penny of money to spend on anything. She 
hardly knew how she got away from London. The 
scenes with the tradespeople and servants all fell 
to her lot. To meet this crisis she had carried her 
few jewels to the solicitor who had attended to her 
father’s business, and from him she had managed 
to negotiate a loan of about two hundred pounds, 
a sum all too little to meet the demands pressing 
on every side. 

To ask Herrick for money was to be rewarded 
with his sunny smile and a five-pound note to go* 
and buy chocolates. To go to Mrs. Tempest was 
impossible. Hetta, with a heart full of sickness, 
knew only too well that certain retrenchments 
Judith had been compelled to make in her expendi¬ 
ture, were not brought about by her own extrava- 


246 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


gance. How, then, could she carry more anxiety 
to what was, she feared, already very great? She 
had set herself the task of trying to see how and 
what economy could be practiced when she had 
rejoined Herrick at the beginning of the season; 
but, poor child, she soon found she was as feeble 
as a straw trying to stem a torrent. The personal 
debts astounded and alarmed her. 

She did not know how Will spent the money he 
got; and, even then, she was far from realizing one 
quarter the cost of his daily life, nor would it ever 
have entered her head to have imagined that the 
wonderful jewels that flashed from head and throat 
and wrist of most of the women who. visited at her 
house owed their origin to Herrick’s criminal gen¬ 
erosity. He had, to do him a sort of justice, tried to 
give Hetta these sort of gifts also in the beginning, 
but it had troubled the girl too much. 

“I love you to remember me, Will,” she Had 
said, “but, darling, you know you have so much 
to do with your money. Please do not buy me 
diamonds. I am quite happy without jewellery.” 

Herrick had shrugged his shoulders, and ac¬ 
quiesced, but what Hetta had refused he gave away 
at a double cost on the very first opportunity to 
his next flirtation. All this drained him of ready 
money, and increased his liabilities; moreover, 
things had not been going well on the Stock Ex- 


THE DAY OE RECKONING. 


247 


change when he met Anne at her lawyer’s office 
in the usual way, and signing the usual receipt, 
had drawn a further loan of a couple of thousand 
pounds, and then had dashed off to Aix. He was 
abroad till late October, and then returned to have 
some shooting. 

All this time he had had no letters from Hetta, 
but he knew through his aunt that his wife was at 
Herrickbourne. 

“The best place for her,” he said to himself, 
irritably. He never once troubled to wonder how 
the girl was struggling on without money, and he 
went on his way as light heartedly and as gaily as 
ever, till the crash came in December. 

Bankruptcy proceedings were taken out by an 
irate tradesman, and it was the beginning of the 
end. Herrick rushed back to London to find him¬ 
self alone for the first time in his life. 

Hetta had carried Judith Tempest away to a 
southern seaside place to try and woo back health 
and strength after a sharp attack of bronchitis, and 
Sir William did not even know where they were to 
be found. 

His first thought, however, was not of Judith 
Tempest, but of Anne; and not content with writ¬ 
ing to Miss Foster to ask for an interview, he drove 
without an instant’s delay to the grand house that 
Anne had just purchased, and demanded to see her. 


248 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


The blow that came when he found she was 
abroad traveling in Italy with Lady Milchester was 
only the first of a succession. From that day the 
scheme of bringing him to absolute ruin, which 
Anne had worked so steadily and SO' well, was put 
in motion. Turn which way he might, Herrick 
met nothing but difficulties; he was practically 
hemmed in by the innumerable devices Anne's 
fertile and clever brain had spread about him. 

It was, of course, impossible for him to keep his 
troubles to himself. Herrick had none of the pride 
which finds pleasure in reticence; moreover, he was 
too much worried and too angry to study anybody 
but himself. He went at once to the two women 
living in their quiet, saddened life down at Bourne¬ 
mouth, and he naturally obtained from Judith as 
much help as was possible. It was then, Hetta 
showed the stronger part of her nature. 

When she saw how worn and weak, and troubled 
Judith was after this interview, she spoke to Her¬ 
rick as she had never known she could speak. SEe 
was strung into a bitterness that did not belong 
to her. 

“Beg—work—or starve, but you shall not drain 
Aunt Judie any further, Will!” she said, with a 
voice ladened with misery and excitement. “Are 
you not ashamed to come to her now when she is 
so weak and ill? Have you the least heart, the 


THE DAY OE RECKONING. 


249 


smallest conscience or pride? O! if I could only- 
find the means to undo what you have done! You 
have ruined us all, Will, and it is not only the money 
you have thrown away—you—you have broken my 
heart!” 

Herrick muttered some savage word, paused 
only a moment, then had walked to the door. 

“Look here,” he said, recklessly, then, “you have 
spoken your word, now hear mine. This is an end 
between us! You understand, an end! I will stand 
no preaching from you; I shall cut all this bother. 
I am off to-night out of the country, and you can 
stay and face the music, with your strong pride 
and your splendid conscience,” he had laughed with 
a sneer as he said this. “I wish you joy of your 
life, but no doubt you will enjoy it. Sanctimonious 
folks always find a delight in predicting damnation 
for others. What a fool I have been! Good 
heavens! to think that just for the silly desire to 
punish Anne, I married you! Well, my folly has 
come home to roost, and no mistake!’ 

He was gone with a clatter and a bang of the 
door, leaving Hetta standing in the middle of the 
room, her face ashen white and her hands clasped 
to her heart, whilst outside the winter wind and 
sea soughed a ballad of desolation, the wail of a 
wasted life, a ruined heart. 

That had been in December. True to his word 


250 


THE DAY OF RECKONING. 


Herrick had gone. Gone without a word of grati¬ 
tude or farewell to the woman who had given him 
a mother’s love and who had poured out all her 
wealth at his feet; gone leaving angry and horrible 
expressions to be spread broadcast in the world 
that was Hetta’s world, and which had its share of 
people ready to fling sticks and stones at her be¬ 
cause she was Herrick’s wife. 

And the worst was she could do nothing. She 
had not a kinsman to whom she could turn for 
help; she saw no way out of this hideous pathway 
of debt and dishonor. Her homes were sold from 
above her head; she had not even a shred of cloth¬ 
ing she could honestly call her own. She was a 
pauper and a deserted wife, and the strain of the 
misery was so great that at times Judith feared 
the girl would never be able to face the storm. But 
love lived in Hetta’s heart, love for this gentle, 
sweet friend, who was so delicate and so sorrowful, 
and who grieved without ceasing night and day, 
over the cruelty, the selfishness, the unworthiness 
of the boy she had loved! 

“We must live for one another!” Hetta said to 
Judith Tempest bravely, and she kept' the tears 
valiantly from her beautiful eyes as she said it. And 
so the wheels of time rolled on, and that desolate 
Christmas gave place to spring, and summer 
dawned close at hand. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 

And while these rough winds of adversity and 
sorrow had been circling round Hetta, the man 
who loved her had been gliding day after day into 
the warmth and security of an established success. 
Society had already ceased to trouble itself about 
Mr. ^ Dennison as an individual, though his fame 
as a writer was something that social patronage 
could neither make nor mar. The world of fashion 
would have gladly taken Gavin Dennison to its 
arms when his name had first been sounded aloud, 
but Gavin had turned his back on the world of 
fashion and all its blandishments. He had spent 
h-> winter abroad, wandering through Spain and 
Italy. He had left England hurriedly in the late 
autumn. There had come to him in this autumn 
time a very peculiar and sad experience that he 
wished to forget, and other lands and scenes he 
felt would bring this about in the quickest way. 

In common with most men, Gavin had always 
had his share of personal vanity, though circum¬ 
stances in the beginning had done much to crush 

( 251 ) 


252 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


this; but women and women’s admiration had 
played but a small part in his life, and the scene 
that had been enacted one late autumn evening in 
the old familiar Rectory garden, was one that had 
surprised, shocked and hurt him. 

He saw in an instant then the real meaning of 
Anne’s steady persistence to have some place in 
his life. He was overwhelmingly sorry for her 
(did he not know himself the ache of an unre¬ 
quited and hidden love?) and yet, paradoxically, 
Anne lost in that moment of wild, passionate con¬ 
fession even the frail hold she had hitherto had 
upon the man’s sympathy and esteem. Indeed, 
after the first shock had passed, Gavin had felt 
almost angry with her. She had placed him in a 
miserable and most delicate position. 

Though he was perfectly well aware that the 
sensation was an unjust one to himself, seeing how 
utterly indifferent he had been to her, how blind 
to her tactics and^ desires, still, in all Anne had 
said there had run a subtle touch ol reproach, con¬ 
veying to him the disagreeable effect that, if there 
was a blame in the matter, he shared that blame 
with her. They had parted, how he hardly knew; 
but the next morning the little cottage next to the 
Rectory had been closed and empty, and Mrs. Prin- 
sep had been left wondering and deploring Miss 
Foster’s sudden departure. 


GAVIN DENNISON'S STRUGGLE. 


253 


It was in a restless and annoyed mood that Gavin, 
too, left his oid friend a few days later. The charm 
of the quiet, peaceful home-life was broken. He 
could not frame a thought, or write a word. He 
resolved to go instantly abroad, and he went. He 
had none to consider, none to counsel whatever lay 
in his life. The only creature who had power to 
control him was one who could not have spoken, 
even if she had wished to do so. 

Away, buried in some sunlit Moorish corner, 
Gavin dawdled the winter through. He had no 
direct news from anyone in England, save from 
Mrs. Prinsep, who forwarded on all his correspond¬ 
ence from publishers, etc., therefore the tidings 
of all William Herrick’s troubles never reached his 
ears. 

He purposely kept out of the beaten track of 
travelers, and by degrees the bitter flavor left by 
that strange and startling episode with Anne Foster 
faded out of his mind. He did an immense amount 
of work, and his leisure hours were spent in 
dreams. 

In the early year he left Spain, and went to renew 
old friendship with Italy. It was in Venice, one 
glorious night, that some chance acquaintances, 
people whom he had met in the whirl of the London 
season, gave him the news of Hetta’s changed lile, 
and of her husband’s desertion. 


254 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


It was pretty confidently asserted by these people 
that Herrick would never return to his old life and 
old haunts. 

“Why should he?” was what one of them queried, 
with a shrug of the shoulders. “He is played out 
at home. He has done all a man of his class wants 
to do, and now he has the other side of the world 
open to him. We shall soon be hearing big reports 
of Herrick as an explorer, or a sportsman of the 
gigantic order. To do him justice the fellow is at 
least no coward.” 

A lady of the party, an American, and therefore 
free spoken, gave voice to the words Gavin would 
have uttered, had he dared: 

“What, you would let a man do what Sir William 
has done—break his wife’s heart, turn his back 
contemptuously on all his debts and difficulties, 
leaving that poor little woman to get through as 
best she can, and then say ‘to do him justice, he is 
no coward!’ Why, I call a man like that just about 
the worst and meanest sort of coward the world 
can produce! I guess that sounds strong, but then 
I feel strongly, when I remember that pretty, sweet 
Lady Herrick, and realize what a hash that man 
has made of her life. She’s just one of the loveliest 
girls I’ve ever seen, and she’s tied for life to a 
scoundrel who has broken her heart first and then 
deserted her. It’s such an old story, isn’t it, Mr. 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


255 


Dennison ?” the lady had finished, with a little sigh, 
“and yet it always seems to come up with a new 
pathos.” 

Gavin said nothing; he could not speak. He was 
prepared, in a sense, to have heard bad news of 
Hetta’s life, but not so bad as this. He feared it 
would hurt her SO' terribly, not the dishonor and 
the ruin so much as the desertion. 

He remembered that night of the little dinner 
at Mrs. Tempest’s, when Herrick had come back so 
unexpectedly, and Hetta had welcomed him with 
such an exquisite abandonment of happiness. He 
had envied Herrick that moment, as he had never 
known before what it was to envy. The most per¬ 
fect joys his pen could paint could never be greater 
in his eyes than the joy Herrick should have had in 
his girl-wife’s love, and now in the first moment 
of hearing of Herrick’s desertion of this young 
creature, Gavin trembled, not merely in anguished 
sympathy for Hetta’s sorro*w, but in actual fear for 
her reason. 

He had a few days’ hard fighting with himself, 
and then he turned back to England. Only to 
breathe the same air as she breathed was some¬ 
thing, and then it would be possible for him to 
have direct news of her, and to know if she lived, 
indeed, mentally as well as bodily. 

The season was just born when he reached Lon- 


256 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


don; the streets were gay with crowds of carriages 
and people, the parks a mass of brilliant coloring. 
Gavin had come from the sun of the south to find 
an equally beautiful sunshine in the land of his 
birth. 

Business occupied him for the first week or so, 
and though invitations began once again to find 
their way to his modest lodging (an astute publisher 
having carefully announced Mr. Dennison’s ar¬ 
rival in town), Gavin lived those early days of his 
return in his old hermit-like fashion. He had not 
spent an hour in town, however, without learning 
some news of the child of his thoughts and love. 

Before he had seen anyone, he had driven to Mrs. 
Tempest’s house in Eaton Square, to leave a card 
and enquire for her. The butler gave him the 
latest news of his mistress willingly. He knew 
Gavin was a favorite visitor to the house. 

“Mrs. Tempest is said to be a little stronger, sir, 
and we have orders to expect her here probably 
next week. Oh! yes, my mistress has been very ill 
this winter, sir, I’m sorry to say. She’d a nasty 
attack of influenza and that was followed by bron¬ 
chitis, and the doctors have kept her at Bourne¬ 
mouth since last Nevember. She’s got Lady Her¬ 
rick with her, sir. Her Ladyship will come to town 
with Mrs. Tempest next week, sir, I believe.” 

“And she is well, Lady Herrick?” Gavin asked, 
as he was turning away. 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 257 

The butler answered him in the same suave way: 

“Quite well, sir, I believe; at least, we ain’t heard 
of no illness, sir.” 

It was a poor thing to live upon, yet Gavin Den¬ 
nison did actually let those few commonplace 
words about Hetta give him comfort during the 
days that followed. 

He emerged a little, after a while, from his se¬ 
clusion, and his first social engagement was a din¬ 
ner at Sir George Cloudesley’s, who sought him 
out, and would take no refusal. The sight of 
Anne’s tall form and dark eyes gave him a little 
shock as he entered Sir George’s well-known room, 
but the woman was complete mistress of the situa¬ 
tion. She greeted him with a smile, and graciou'sly 
held out her hand. She had discarded her mourn¬ 
ing robes, and wore something that was radiant 
and picturesque, her old trick of covering herself 
with jewels having play once again. 

Anne was chaperoned by a woman of the highest 
rank in the social world. She had progressed up¬ 
wards rapidly during the past year; but then money, 
such as hers, establishes an order of its own. There 
were several other guests, but Gavin saw only one 
of them, and that one was Lord Glastonbury. 

The well-remembered face wore a strangely sad 
and wearied air. Gavin felt, rather than knew, the 
man had passed through great suffering since last 


258 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


they had met. He kept at a farther end of the 
room; he was surprised and half angry with him¬ 
self that the sight of his father’s changed looks 
should have had such power to hurt him. 

Anne, fortunately, was not placed near him, so 
he was more or less free to let his thoughts wander 
as they would, and they were faithless for almost 
the first time to the remembrance of Hetta, as he 
sat and noted the signs of sorrow and illness on 
the man who was so near, yet so widely far from 
him. If Anne hoped to have brought trouble upon 
him by her presence, she was once again disap¬ 
pointed. Gavin, after the first surprise at seeing 
her, drifted out of all consciousness of her presence. 
She had not even the power to oppress him. 

She had known he was coming, and had planned 
this meeting purposely. Though she had tasted 
such horrible failure, Anne was not defeated; suc¬ 
cess had come to her other schemes in such extra¬ 
ordinary fashion, that it was natural, perhaps, she 
should have imagined with patience and tact she 
should succeed also' with Gavin. She knew the 
instant she had spoken that night that she had 
made a great mistake, and it had taken her all these 
months to recover from this knowledge, but she 
had recovered, and now hope, a new and a different 
hope, had sprung into life in her heart. 

She was bound about by caution, by experience, 
and she knew she was far more dangerous now 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


259 


than formerly. There was at all events a remem¬ 
brance between them, and that was something- that 
could never, she told herself, let him regard her 
with indifference. Better his contempt than his 
indifference. The months of absence had but 
deepened the hold Gavin had made upon this 
strange woman’s heart. For the sake of realizing 
some day the hope she had conjured into existence, 
Anne turned a deaf ear to many other men. 

She could have married half-a-dozen times a 
month, had such a thing been possible. She had 
her triumph in telling this over to herself, and in 
recalling the fact that Herrick, the man who had 
once dared to openly despise her, was by her 
manoeuvres exiled from his country, whilst his wife 
had to bear the humiliation of his published dis¬ 
honor, and the cruelty of his desertion. 

“If he had known what lay in his future, I think 
Will would not have been in such a hurry to refuse 
to make me his wife, as he was that first night we 
met at Turret Teignton,” was what she said over 
and over again to herself. She had not a grain of 
pity for Herrick. All the love that once had been so 
fierce had passed into contempt, almost into pity. 

For Hetta she had another feeling, a hatred deep 
and most bitter, because as yet it had been so im¬ 
potent. In all her cleverness, in the ruin she had 
worked, Anne knew she had not been able to harm 


260 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


Hetta as she longed to harm her. The sorrow 
that the girl was suffering came through Herrick, 
not through her. 

She had, it is true, divided Hetta from her hus¬ 
band, but the separation had begun long before the 
day Herrick had found it expedient to fly out of 
the country. Moreover, Hetta, whatever her indi¬ 
vidual feelings might be in connection with the 
financial trouble into which she was plunged, had 
not one enemy in the world. By his desertion of 
his wife, Herrick Bad put Hetta into a higher place 
than before. 

“And now she can pose as a martyr for the rest 
of her days,” Anne sneered to herself. She saw no 
fear to her hope in the thought of Gavin’s deepened 
sympathy for Hetta. 

She looked at him keenly that night as they sat 
at the same dinner-table. He was grown very 
handsome; there was an irresistible fascination to 
this coarse-moulded woman in the poetry, the refine¬ 
ment of this man. Years before he’r eyes had been 
blinded by mere physical beauty, now she loved 
differently. She would have given all she possessed 
to have felt she had the true homage of such a heart 
as Gavin Dennison’s. 

Her infatuation was such she could have knelt 
at his feet and worshipped him. Not too well 
skilled in hiding her feelings, Anne little guessed 


GAVIN DENNISON’S STRUGGLE. 


261 


that already the spell that had held her in bond 
was known to the world, and that every one of those 
who sat round Sir George Cloudesley’s table knew 
the cause of her persistent spinsterhobd, and her 
coldness to her many suitors. Neither could she 
have divined what reason it was that made Lord 
Glastonbury seek, an hour or so later, a private 
word with Dennison. 

“May I be permitted to drive you homewards?” 
the great statesman asked of the younger man as 
he rose to take his departure. “I have one w*ord 
I wish to speak to you,” the Earl added hurriedly, 
as he saw a refusal hovering on Gavin’s lips; “it 
is something imperative.” 

There was nothing for Gavin to do but to bow 
an acceptance. 

He followed his father from the room and down 
the broad staircase. It was like a strange dream 
to him tO' find himself alone with this man whom 
he had hated, dreaded, and now pitied. What was 
the private word that Lord Glastonbury desired to 
say to him? His face was very pale, but his heart 
was cold and very proud as he passed down the 
stairs to where the carriage was waiting. Was it 
merely some commonplace matter? Was it a word 
from the past? If so, Gavin said to himself with a 
bitter sigh, it was a word spoken too late by just 
the length of his lifetime. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“SOME DAY, I WIDE COME—” 

Lord Glastonbury motioned the young man into 
his brougham, and then gave the brief command 
“home” to his footman. 

“I find, Mr. Dennison,” he said, with a faint 
smile, “that you must conduct me home first. I 
have already exhausted my strength.” 

Gavin merely bowed, and the drive to Lord Glas¬ 
tonbury’s house was performed in silence. 

“I am going to ask you to come in for one mo¬ 
ment, Mr. Dennison,” the Earl said, half faintly, 
as they arrived. He spoke as though he expected 
a refusal, but Gavin bowed again, and obeyed his 
wish. 

They passed into a room on the ground floor, 
a room Gavin felt that had been the scene of many 
a triumphant moment in the great politician’s life. 

Lord Glastonbury, attended by his servant, asked 
first for some brandy then waved the man away. 
They were alone quite two moments before he 
spoke. 

“I am about to ask you a strange question, Mr. 

( 262 ) 


“SOME DAY, I WIDE COME—’’ 


263 


Dennison, and to make a strange remark. I shall 
not even beg your forgiveness for so doing. My 
interest in you is of so deep a nature, you will, for 
this reason, pardon what would in other circum¬ 
stances seem interference if not impertinence.” 

Gavin made no answer, he merely seated him¬ 
self in the chair that had been placed for him, and 
waited for what was to come. 

The older man took a long, sad look at the im¬ 
passive face opposite, and sighed, then spoke on, 
abruptly: 

“Is it true that you have thought of making this 
woman, Anne Foster, your wife?” 

Gavin started and colored hotly; this was indeed 
the last question he had expected to have had put 
to him. He answered hurriedly: 

“It is most untrue, my lord!” 

Lord Glastonbury was still looking at him 
keenly. 

“I am glad of it,” he said, slowly; “she is not the 
wife for you. Yet she intends to be your wife, 
Mr. Dennison, no matter what means she uses to 
attain that end!” 

Gavin smiled faintly. 

“Is it so easy, then, to marry a man against'his 
will, my lord?” he asked. 

“To a clever, passionate, ambitious woman, all 


264 


“SOME DAY, I WILL COME—” 


things are easy, given time and opportunity. She 
is of the class of women I hold in abhorrence. Once 
in my life, years ago, about the time when your 
eyes must have first opened on the world, there 
came across my path just such a woman as this!” 

The famous voice had sunk into a low whisper. 

“Sight of Miss Foster has always brought that 
woman back to my mind. She was evil, as this 
one can be. She—” he had to put the brandy once 
more to his lips. “That woman was a murderess, 
Mr. Dennison; she killed an innocent young crea¬ 
ture by lies and slander; she broke a man’s heart 
and darkened his whole career. She—she laid the 
stain of a false shame on a child, working so well 
that this shame drove the man to an act of cruelty 
too great ever to be pardoned or forgotten!” 

There was a silence in the room that was as the 
silence of death. The younger man sat staring be¬ 
fore him, his face ashen white, his lips firmly set. 
The burden of a confession, the offer of restitution, 
had been carried in those broken words. Had he 
cared to stretch out his hand, he could have clasped 
his father’s hand in his at last; but he did not move, 
nor did he look towards his listener when he spoke. 

“It is possible there may be a resemblance be¬ 
tween this woman you once knew and Miss Foster, 
my lord,” he said, and the stress of his agitation 


“SOME DAY, I WILL COME—” 


265 


made his voice colder than before. “Still, I am 
always slow to judge without reason. If Miss 
Foster desires to become my wife that expresses a 
poor ambition, not necessarily a bitter or a wicked 
nature.” 

Lord Glastonbury’s face took more of its usual 
look as he replied: 

“In my long and busy life, Mr. Dennison,” he 
said, “I have been taught the necessity in more 
ways than one of never giving utterance to a prej¬ 
udicial sentiment without due cause. For reasons 
of my own I have been interested in this young 
woman, and through means which my position 
places at my disposal, I have learned much about 
her. She is a vindictive nature, and can hate well, 
as you will allow when I tell you that the sorrow 
laid on that sweet little creature, Lady Herrick, 
is to a very large extent the working of this other 
woman’s malignity. I determined to speak to you 
to-night when I saw you, for had I a son such as 
you, I think I rather that that son were laid in 
his grave than that he should become the life com¬ 
panion of a woman like this.” 

Then quickly, before Gavin could speak, and in 
the most business like way, Lord Glastonbury gave 
a rough sketch of the monetary transactions that 
had passed between Anne and Herrick, and all that 
this had signified. 


266 


“SOME DAY, I WILE COME—” 


“Her object was to' ruin the man, and to drag 
his wife into the gutter. She has succeeded in one, 
and failed in the other; but she has not finished 
with Lady Herrick yet.” 

Gavin’s arms were crossed over his breast. He 
was surprised beyond measure, but he was more 
deeply touched with pain than surprise; pain 
mingled with fear for Hetta’s sake. The eagerness, 
the emotion that ran in Lord Glastonbury’s voice, 
too, made the whole moment distressing to him. 
He realized that there had been a big motive in 
the confidence that had been made to him; but 
he knew well it was a motive with a double purpose, 
and that Lord Glastonbury had chosen this method 
of telling his son he was prepared to come more 
than half-way on the road to meet him. 

Gavin had a longing upon him that he could 
have had an equal eagerness to tread that other half 
road. Why had not this moment come to him 
years before, when his boyish heart had yearned 
for his father, and for his proper place? All had 
been made clear to him in what had been said to¬ 
night. He knew now that his mother’s fair inno¬ 
cence had been slandered, but never stained, and 
he knew that he himself was the rightful son of 
this world-famous man, rightful heir to the old 
title; still, there was no joy to him in the knowl- 


“SOME DAY, I WIDE COME—” 


267 


edge, no sweetness in the restoration. He had 
lived too long with the bitter sorrow to forget so 
soon. With his own hands his father had built up 
the barrier of a lifetime between them, and neither 
Gavin’s strength nor will were equal, as yet, to the 
task of beating down that barrier. 

He forced himself to speak after a while. 

“I am grateful to you, my lord, that you should 
have taken so deep an interest in me as you have 
evinced to-night. As I have shown you, I did’not 
really stand in any danger of making the mistake 
you feared, nevertheless, I am still grateful to you.” 

He rose as he spoke, and held out his hand. 

“Your lordship will be glad to rest,” he said. 

The Earl took the hand, held it a moment, then, 
with a proud air which was so characteristic of him, 
and of the man before him also, he rose too. 

“You forgive me my plain words, I hope?” he 
said, quietly, then with his wonderful tact, he glided 
away from all further touch with dangerous sub¬ 
jects, and they stood for a while before they parted, 
discussing Gavin’s latest book and the literature of 
the moment as keenly as though there existed no 
such thing in the world as the drama of wrong and 
suffering such as was written in both their hearts. 

“We shall meet again soon, I trust,” Lord Glas¬ 
tonbury said, when Gavin finally took his depar- 


268 


“SOME DAY, I WILD COME—” 


ture; “and pray do not scruple to make whatever 
use of this library that may be of service to you. 
My books have been my family and my home for 
many years. You are the first, I may say the only 
person, who has been bid welcome to this home, 
Mr. Dennison.” 

He accompanied the young man to the outer 
door himself, and there Gavin moved he could not 
have told by what emotion, turned and took the 
thin, worn hand in his once more. 

“I thank you,” he said, and he spoke unsteadily, 
for there were tears in his voice, “I thank you, and 
some day I will come to your home as you desire.” 

There was no other word spoken between them, 
and as the door was closed, Gavin walked briskly 
away into the summer night. He had gone many 
yards in a blind, aimless way before He realized 
where he was, or before he could still the sharp 
pain at his heart, or brush the mist of tears from 
his eyes. 

% :)« Jjc 

It was a strangely peaceful summer to Hetta. 
Now that the very worst had come, life seemed to 
be set in a quiet atmosphere, which was soothing 
and helpful to her. Perhaps it was the daily, hourly 
claim made upon her thought and hands by Judith’s 
great delicacy that ministered in a way to the girl. 


“SOME DAY, I WILE COME—” 


Hetta had lived through suffering that is not 
to be measured in words during the winter that had 
dragged itself away. She was so young in heart 
and years, a child even yet, but mental pain brings 
a touch of age that never disappears. 

It hurt Mrs. Tempest to see Hetta grow daily 
more grave and womanly. It was natural, she 
knew, but she sorrowed for the girl’s lost youth, 
for that radiant happiness that had once surrounded 
Herrick’s wife like a glory of perpetual sunshine. 
They had drifted into complete silence over the 
subject so close to their two hearts. Of what use 
to talk of Herrick? Words would not mend their 
trouble, nor revive their hope. 

He was gone utterly and entirely. Hetta did not 
deceive herself any longer. That one last interview 
between her husband and herself had painted him 
in his true colors, and had swept away forever the 
last shred of her illusion, and of her faith in his 
better nature. She was a devoted child to the oldei* 
woman. 

Herrick’s desertion had struck even deeper at 
Judith Tempest than at Hetta, for Judith had only 
feared all these past months what Hetta had known 
and suffered. 

They came to London at Mrs. Tempest’s wish. 
Hetta would most willingly have lived all her life 


270 


“SOME DAY, I WILD COME—” 


without further sight of the great city where her 
sorrow had been born, had it been possible; but 
her home henceforward was with Judith, and 
Judith’s slightest wish was her law. Hetta’s great¬ 
est fear in coming to London was the possibility 
of meeting Anne. There was now no pretence of 
friendship between the two women. The mask had 
been dropped by Anne, and even if it had not been 
so, those words of Herrick’s would have turned 
Hetta against all further intercourse with her step¬ 
sister. 

Sometimes, in driving, Hetta would come upon 
Anne in her smart carriage, her dark beauty made 
attractive by all that money could do, but they 
passed one another as strangers, and Hetta always 
breathed easier when the ordeal was over. 

. Life in the Eaton Square house was scarcely less 
monotonous than it had been at the sea, yet Hetta 
was content. A few visitors paid regular visits to 
Lady Herrick and her husband’s aunt, and of these 
Gavin Dennison was the most regular and the most 
welcome. 

He was welcome to both women. Hetta loved 
to know he was coming, for then her dear invalid 
was sure of a delightful hour. From no one did 
Mrs. Tempest receive such delicate thought and 
remembrance as from Gavin, and there was noth- 


“SOME DAY, I WIDE COME—” 


271 


ing she enjoyed so much as a long book chat with 
the young man. 

To Hetta herself his coming signified nothing 
more than this, that he was a source of solace and 
pleasure to the woman whose love made the girl’s 
world now. She used to sit apart with a faint smile 
on her lips listening to the arguments that went 
on so frequently between the others. Had she 
been told there was so close to her a love strong, 
deep, true as death, Hetta would have been pre¬ 
pared to deny it. For her, love was a thing that 
was dead, devotion a myth, and a man’s heart a 
storehouse of all that was most cruel and treacher¬ 
ous. She had neither wish for, nor faith in love. 
She wanted nothing more in life than peace. If 
her future might always be spent as was life with 
her in these summer days, she would ask for no 
greater happiness. 

But this phase of calm, of rest, of sympathy, was 
not destined to be left to her unbroken. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 

Gavin went down in the early days of July to 
pay a visit to Mrs. Prinsep. The good old soul 
had been ailing, and he knew a few days of his 
companionship would do her good, and so, though 
it was a sacrifice to leave London now even for an 
hour, he went. 

He had tried to bring his faithful, loving old 
friend to town to establish with himself a home (for 
Mrs. Prinsep had little joy or comfort in her own 
boys), but she clung to the house and place where 
she had been so long, and though she was touched 
by Gavin’s thought, she prayed to be allowed to 
live there till she died. 

It was hot, sultry weather when Gavin took this 
journey. Already the simple, yet illimitable happi¬ 
ness that had been his these few past weeks, 
threatened to come to an end, for Hetta was eager 
to carry her invalid out of town. 

“There is no air here, she cannot breathe; we 
must go to the sea,” Hetta had said to him, when 
last he had seen her, and he had agreed with her 

( 272 ) 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


273 


that it was right, though his heart sank, those 
words were as a knell to him, for when they went, 
the glory of the sun would go with them, and he 
durst not follow that glory. 

He loved the pale, slender, proud woman into 
which Hetta had grown, a thousand times deeper 
than he had loved her in her radiant girlhood; her 
very coldness and blindness to the truth of his 
heart was sweet to him. If only he might have 
lived in the shadow of her life as he had lived 
lately, he would have been content. There was 
something higher, purer, more noble in Gavin’s 
devotion than is found in most human loves; as he 
himself was divided from most ordinary men by his 
nature and by the circumstances of his life, so his 
feelings were utterly different to other and more 
conventional men. 

He remained almost a week with Mrs. Prinsep, 
and as usual he did a quantity of work down in the 
calm stillness of the country. It hurt him to hear 
frequent reference to Anne from his old friend’s 
lips. Mrs. Prinsep spoke frequently of Miss Foster, 
and wanted to know all about her. She deplored 
the fact that she saw nothing of her whilom neigh¬ 
bor. 

Gavin found it difficult to even speak Anne’s 
name. Lord Glastonbury’s words had been the 
final stroke to his own doubt and dislike of the 


274 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BEOW. 


woman. She gave him an uneasiness each time 
he saw her, not for himself, but for Hetta; yet he 
always tried to dismiss this, for what harm re¬ 
mained for Anne to do? She had effectually driven 
Herrick to the other side of the globe; she had 
as effectually blighted Hetta’s heart; surely this 
would content even her enmity. 

So argued Gavin, little imagining that though 
Anne had done so much, the greatest triumph she 
might have had was blighted by the knowledge of 
his love for Hetta and scorn for herself. 

Lord Glastonbury was right, indeed, when he 
told Gavin that Anne Foster’s envious hate for her 
stepsister was even yet unsatisfied. 

The young man’s first task on returning to Lon¬ 
don was to go to Eaton Square. His heart was 
thrilling at the thought of seeing Hetta again, of 
touching her slender hand and hearing her quiet 
low voice. The butler who admitted him gave him 
a shock so great as to bewilder him for the moment. 

“Mrs. Tempest will be glad to see you, sir,” the 
man said, and with honest pleasure at sight of Mr. 
Dennison. “She has felt the upset of her ladyship’s 
going away so sudden-like very much indeed. 
Lady Herrick started for America on Wednesday, 
sir,” the butler added, as he took Gavin’s hat and 
stick. “Sir William he cabled for her as to go to 
him at once; her ladyship will have to travel a 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


275 


goodish bit when she gets to the other side. I am 
fearing it will be a lot too hot for her, she not being 
too strong, neither!” 

Gavin’s silence gave the man an opportunity to 
talk on, an opportunity which he grasped. He led 
the way up to the drawing-room where Judith 
Tempest was lying propped up with pillows on a 
couch by the window. She looked fragile and 
desolate, and gave a cry of joy as Gavin came in. 

“Oh, I have wanted you so much,” she said, and 
her voice had a break in it. 

Gavin sat down and held both her hands. 

“Why did not you send for me?” he asked. 

“Everything has been so sudden. I seemed* to 
have lived in confusion, and after the child had left 
me I could do nothing but weep and pray all may 
go well with her.” 

“She has gone for a long time?” Gavin asked, 
in a hushed voice/ 

Judith looked at him through her tears, and a 
new pain leaped into life in her heart, for she had 
grown very, very fond of him, and she knew that 
his life itself had gone out in his deep, boundless 
love. 

“Who can say? You know her as I know her. 
If it is his will, she may never return. I tried to 
stop her. Yes, it was wrong, I know, for he is 
her husband, though he has done his best to kill 


276 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


her, body and soul. Though I, too, still yearn for 
him, I tried to stop her, but she would go. She is 
strong in her instincts of what is right, and so I 
let her go; but, oh! I shall know no happiness till 
I see her again.” 

Gavin sat smoothing the delicate hands. He could 
have wept bitter tears himself, as she was doing, 
but he had to put self on one side to think of her. 
The void there would be in her life now struck 
him with a pang. 

“The cablegram was urgent, then?” he askfed. 

“Very—and yet curt. It simply said she was to 
go at once as he had need of her. He cabled from 
somewhere far West. My poor child will have a 
terrible journey, and who knows what she may be 
called upon to endure at the end of it?” 

“We must pray for her unceasingly,” Gavin said, 
gently, “and you must let me comfort you, if I can. 
I have need of your comfort, too, dear friend. My 
heart is sore with many troubles, and there is one 
that, perhaps, you may help to smoothe a little.” 

He determined all at once to put the story of 
his life into her delicate hands; he had a double 
reason in doing this. He knew that any occupation 
would be good for her now to relieve the tension 
of her overstrained nerves, and he himself had 
many sorrowful moments of remembrance touch¬ 
ing himself and his last meeting with his father. 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BEOW. 


277 


The knowledge that a restitution was at his feet 
if he chose to take it, hurt not his pride now, but 
his tender pity for the man w'ho> had lived with 
remorse eating, canker-like, at his heart these many 
years. 

His father’s existence moved Gavin’s sympathy 
to its deepest depths. He felt rather than knew 
that the wrong done had never been disclosed to 
Lord Glastonbury till years after his father’s life 
had been ruined. He did not want to probe into 
these things, he wanted simply to put his case as it 
was before a third person, and bide by that third 
person’s counsel, and he knew no one (save Hetta) 
to whom he could have spoken of this except Mrs. 
Tempest. 

So after he had questioned and heard all there 
was to hear about Hetta’s departure, his heart 
aching meanwhile to think he had not been near 
to do< all the trivial, yet necessary things she must 
have done in order to get herself on board the 
Wednesday steamer, he turned Judith’s mind away 
from her sorrow, and opened out his instead. 

His need for her help and sympathy was, as he 
had imagined, the best medicine Judith could have 
had. For hours they sat talking, and to the man, 
weary, heart-sore, and lonely, it was as if he had 
been given back his mother for a brief hour. There 
were tears blinding Judith Tempest’s eyes as she 


278 ANNE) FOSTER’S EAST BEOW. 

pleaded with him to turn at once to the love of 
his father. 

'There is not one of us who has the right to 
judge another unless we know thread by thread 
every small detail and circumstance of that other’s 
life. My dear boy, you have come to me for coun¬ 
sel; I have but one counsel to give you. If you 
wish for the blessing of Heaven to rest on your 
life, if you wish to do good and right, you will go 
to your father, you will not lose one hour.” 

She drew Gavin’s handsome face towards her and 
kissed him. 

"Ah! if only a son could come to me and ask 
for my love!” she said, with a sigh, and then came 
back the old wound. "I dreamed once that Will 
would have been as my son. Oh! the folly of our 
dreams!” 

Gavin did not leave her till late that evening. 
When he quitted Eaton Square, he stood for a mo¬ 
ment in the clear dusk of the summer night, and 
then hailing a cab, he gave the name of his father’s 
house, and was driven rapidly away. 

Judith Tempest was lying waiting expectantly for 
Gavin to come to her the next morning, when her 
maid entered and brought word that Miss Foster 
was below, and wished most urgently to see her. 
Anne had scribbled a few words on her card: 

"Pray, see me. I have a favor to ask you.” 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


279 


Mrs. Tempest hesitated a long moment, then a 
sudden impulse led her to grant Anne’s request, 
although she had no desire to see or have anything 
further to do with Miss Foster. 

Anne came in half-defiantly. She was very hand¬ 
some, very picturesquely dressed. 

“I dare say you will feel inclined to reproach me 
for not coming to see you all this time, but there 
were reasons why I could not come.” 

Mrs. Tempest gave her a cold greeting. 

“I have not expected you,” she said. She did 
not touch Anne’s hand; her manner was gentle but 
unsympathetic. “You wish me to> do something 
for you?” she asked. 

Anne had moved to the window, and now stood 
looking out through the lowered blinds. 

“I hardly suppose you are prepared to do any¬ 
thing,” she said, bitterly; “yet you were kind to 
me once, and that has tempted me—” she paused. 
“I had better go straight to the point,” she said 
then, half recklessly. “I want something from you 
that I believe is possible from you, and from no 
other living person. I want—” she paused again, 
and moved the lace at her throat, as if the soft 
filmy substance prevented her from breathing. She 
turned after that pause and looked across at the 
delicate woman who was watching her in troubled 
fashion—“I want you to make peace between Gavin 


280 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


Denniscpi and myself,” she said then, in a low, yet 
defiant sort of way. “He comes to you as he goes 
to no one else. He shuns me—perhaps he has a 
right to do this, for I was unwomanly enough to 
let him see my heart,—but I cannot live, knowing 
he holds me in contempt. Bring us together—only 
let him give me the opportunity of getting back his 
friendship, I—” 

She broke off hurriedly. 

Mrs. Tempest said nothing for a long time. 
Anne’s presence had been painful to her, but this 
request was more painful still. She had never been 
called upon to meet so disagreeable a position be¬ 
fore. Despite a vague touch of pity that her 
womanliness could not resist, she was conscious of 
a strong repugnance for Anne. All that lay hidden 
in these words was clear to her, and much more, 
too, seemed to be revealed in this moment. 

“I fear*” she said, her weak voice coldness itself, 
“I fear you ask of me what is impossible. Mr. 
Dennison, it is true, is my very dear friend, but 
even such* friendship as ours does not permit of my 
probing into matters which he holds secret. No 
good—believe me, I do not speak unkindly—but 
no good could ever come from approaching him on 
this subject.” 

There was a heavy silence in the room after these 
words; the heart of the invalid beat nervously as 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


281 


she looked on her unexpected and unwelcomed 
visitor. Though Anne's dealings in Hetta’s life had 
not been fully disclosed to Judith Tempest, she 
knew enough to realize that before her stood a 
determined enemy of the child she loved. Poor 
Colonel Lorrimer’s wistful doubt about Anne re¬ 
turned to her memory sharply, and she had a little 
pang at her heart as she remembered how she had 
misjudged Hetta in those far off days, and dis¬ 
missed her old friend’s fears and anxieties as being 
unnecessary. Time had proved well how true his 
fears had been. It was Anne who spoke first. 

“You have changed to me,” she said, abruptly, 
yet with some pathos. “A short while ago you 
were my friend, and now—” 

“I am a woman who does not change easily,” 
Mrs. Tempest answered. Had Hetta been there 
she would have insisted on complete rest and silence 
for her beloved invalid; but Anne lost in her own 
most selfish and miserable thoughts had no eyes 
for the pallor and the extreme weakness. “If—if 
I have changed, then there must have been great 
cause, Miss Foster.” With an effort Judith rallied 
herself a little. “I am sorry I cannot discuss mat¬ 
ters more fully. I am now a broken-hearted and a 
very ill woman. Much I could say if I had 
strength; but after all, what words of mine can 
give back the past? If you have happiness in 


282 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


realizing all you have done, then you are to be 
envied. There is no place henceforward for you in 
my life. I ceased to be your friend when I knew 
you were my poor Hetta’s enemy!” 

“And do you think that she is the only one in 
the world who can suffer? who can be wronged?” 
There was a hoarse cry in Anne’s voice, and then 
she paused suddenly, for the door had opened, and 
Gavin Dennison had come in. 

Mrs. Tempest stretched out her hands to him 
eagerly, and he sat beside her and held those 
trembling hands in his; it was evident some strong 
agitation had sway with him. He had not looked 
at Anne, had not vouchsafed her even the courtesy 
of a greeting, but when she would have swept round 
sharply and gone through the door, he rose. 

“Stay,” he said; his hand was still clasped round 
Judith’s weak one. “Stay, I have a question to 
ask you?” 

Anne paused and looked at him. She was deadly 
white and her big dark eyes had a mute mournful 
look, as the eyes of some stricken animal. 

Gavin caught his breath quickly. 

“I do not know, nor do I seek to know, what 
has brought you here. All I desire to hear from 
your own lips is the confirmation of a doubt that 
is to me, alas! a convincing truth.” He paused a 
moment, and looked down at the invalid woman 
with a soft glance, as though to- ask her pardon 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


283 


for giving her further pain and agitation. “Lady 
Herrick,” he said as distinctly as he could, “Lady 
Herrick sailed for America on Wednesday last, in 
obedience to a cablegram purporting to have been 
sent by her husband from the vicinity of Lake 
Superior, demanding her immediate presence. Can 
you tell me whose hand it was that directed that 
such a cablegram should be sent?” 

Anne Foster stood erect and alone in the middle 
of the large room. The last vestige of hope, nursed 
as it had been against all odds, died out forever in 
her heart. She saw herself debased and despised 
by this man whom she worshipped so unreason- 
ingly; she felt herself branded for all time with his 
illimitable contempt; she was trembling in every 
limb as she stood. This meeting, this examination 
was utterly unexpected; it found her quite unpre¬ 
pared; it suddenly sent a hot flood of fear through 
her, for something in Gavin’s manner told her that 
her full treachery to Hetta had been disclosed, and 
who could say but that there might be some dis¬ 
agreeables attached to this disclosure. 

She drew her courage about her as best she 
could. 

“Truly,” she said, with a bitterness in her voice 
that came from her heart, “truly you ask strange 
questions, Mr. Dennison.” 

Gavin met her eyes. 


284 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


“A question that must be answered,” he said> 
doggedly. 

“Would it not be as well to direct these questions 
to others? Am I the keeper of Lady Herrick’s 
husband? If, as you tell me, a cablegram arrived 
from Sir William bidding his wife join him in 
America, why do> you suddenly turn to me for ex¬ 
planation of this fact?” 

“Because,” Gavin could not speak clearly or 
steadily, “because, Miss Foster, I know that it was 
an alien hand that sent that cablegram, because all 
the world knows now that you are bent upon mak¬ 
ing Lady Herrick suffer, if possible, more than she 
has already suffered, and because,” Gavin turned 
now, and sat down beside the weak, trembling 
woman, whose hands he held, “because Sir William 
Herrick was never near Lake Superior when that 
cablegram was sent; he was embarked on board a 
homeward bound steamer, carried thither in a con¬ 
dition so weak as to cause fears for his ultimate 
safe arrival. These fears were realized when the 
vessel was three days out from New York,” Gavin 
added, and he tightened his hold on Judith’s hands. 
“Sir William Herrick died at sea on the very day 
his poor young wife started out to obey what she 
thought was his command. The news was tele¬ 
graphed from Queenstown early this morning, it 
is now in all the papers. The boat reaches Liver- 


ANNE FOSTER’S LAST BLOW. 


285 


pool tO'-night. I came to you the instant I heard 
this/’ Gavin said, hushing his voice as he bent 
lower over the poor weeping woman on the couch. 
“I felt you might like to* have me with you. You 
will use me in every way—turn to me, let me be 
your son—give me the joy of serving you.” 

His voice sank into whispering tenderness, he 
brushed away the tears that came with such bitter 
sorrow from Judith’s eyes, he kissed her hands, he 
soothed her as any woman might have done, and 
Anne stood watching him with her big dark eyes, 
and a stricken heart. She could scarcely realize the 
truth of all he had said, it had been so strange and 
sudden. As by a lightning touch her old just, 
honest self seemed to be reborn in her; she shrank 
almost with an audible cry from the revelation of 
herself as she had been these last few years. 

Her cruelty, her mad anger, her treachery stood 
like black phantoms in her path, and then came a 
swift remembrance—Will was dead! Will, SO' 
strong, so handsome, so sunny, so fascinating! 
Will was dead—a young man made old in sin— 
and she had helped to bring about this end. Will 
was dead! the words beat in her brain as she turned 
and groped her way from the room and down the 
stairs. 

She got into her carriage like a blind woman; 
passion, ambition, hate, jealousy, revenge—all the 
ingredients that made her life of late—were swept 


ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


to the winds. She had gone back to the old years, 
to the dingy shop, the hard, dull life with a violent- 
tempered and eccentric father, and to the first thrill 
of ecstasy that had seized her heart, as a soft voice 
had spoken her name tenderly, and the handsomest 
eyes in the world had drawn her heart from her so 
completely. 

“Will was dead!” she said it to herself over and 
over again. It was a thing SO' incomprehensible, 
so cruel in a sense. She forgot the Will she had 
known of late, the Will she had taught herself to 
hate so intently, the Will she had so relentlessly 
set herself to ruin. All thought of Hetta, of Gavin, 
of later days, went from her; she lived in memories 
of the past, and in the past that had been beautiful, 
not the miserable past. 

She sat like a statue in her splendid carriage, 
and people who knew her shrugged their shoulders 
as she passed them with unseeing eyes, and said 
something about Miss Foster’s increasing eccen¬ 
tricity, coupled with the usual envy for her wealth. 
They would have called Anne eccentric, indeed, if 
they could have known the strange wild wish that 
held her heart as in a spell in this moment. 

Her wealth, her place in the world, her success, 
her triumph, how gladly would Anne have bartered 
them for one hour of those old days, when love had 
been as a perpetual sun on her sordid life, and faith 
had made all things beautiful to her! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“OH! IF I HAD ONL/Y KNOWN—” 

There were many to give a word of surprised 
regret over the news of Sir William Herrick’s most 
untimely death. He had no friends in the real sense 
of the word, but he had been exceedingly popular, 
always lavish with his money, and always ready to 
amuse society or be amused. His disappearance 
from the London world of fashion had made a 
blank, and his death brought home the inexorable 
decrees of fate to’ many of his former comrades in 
a sharp and disagreeable fashion. 

There was something fitting to so wild and irre¬ 
sponsible a life in a death at sea. The newspapers 
for a day or two had accounts of the accident which 
had been the commencement of Sir William’s ill¬ 
ness, and described how the doctors on the other 
side had tried to dissuade the sick man from under¬ 
taking the fatigue of the voyage till at least he was 
stronger, and how Sir William had insisted on re¬ 
turning to England as he was. 

The sad fact of Lady Herrick having started to 
join her husband, and having actually passed the 
ship bearing his dead body in mid ocean, was much 
commented upon, and a wave of great sympathy 
went up from innumerable hearts for Hetta. 

( 287 ) 


288 


‘OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN—’ 


The girl herself had reached New York, and a 
cablegram had been handed to her the instant the 
steamer entered the harbor. It was signed 
“Judith,” and it told her she was not to proceed 
to Lake Superior; that there had been a mistake, 
and that she must take a return passage the instant 
she arrived, if she were well enough to do so. 
Tired, ill at heart, and bewildered, Hetta never 
hesitated to obey. There was a Southampton boat 
sailing on the afternoon of the day she reached 
New York, and she and her maid and her boxes 
were transferred by the kindly aid of some acquaint¬ 
ances who had gone out with her, to this other 
steamer. It was not till she was actually embark¬ 
ing for home that Hetta understood the meaning 
of her dear friend’s message. Some newspapers 
had been brought on board, and sitting out on the 
deck, eagerly anxious for a breath of air, for the 
heat in and about New York was terrible just then, 
the girl read the news of her widowhood. 

She was lying in a dead faint with the newspaper 
spread out on her knee, when her maid came to* 
find her, and after she had been carried to her 
state-room, she did not emerge from it till England 
was reached. 

Judith would have gone herself to meet the poor, 
heart-sick, and weary traveler, but she was herself 
prostrated, so Hetta was greeted by servants. She 
little dreamed, or could have dreamed, that any 







‘‘Oh! If I had only known ! ” 











ANNE FOSTER’S EAST BLOW. 


to the winds. She had gone back to the old years, 
to the dingy shop, the hard, dull life with a violent- 
tempered and eccentric father, and to the first thrill 
of ecstasy that had seized her heart, as a soft voice 
had spoken her name tenderly, and the handsomest 
eyes in the world had drawn her heart from her so 
completely. 

“Will was dead!” she said it to herself over and 
over again. It was a thing so incomprehensible, 
so cruel in a sense. She forgot the Will she had 
known of late, the Will she had taught herself to 
hate so intently, the Will she had so relentlessly 
set herself to ruin. All thought of Hetta, of Gavin, 
of later days, went from her; she lived in memories 
of the past, and in the past that had been beautiful, 
not the miserable past. 

She sat like a statue in her splendid carriage, 
and people who knew her shrugged their shoulders 
as she passed them with unseeing eyes, and said 
something about Miss Foster’s increasing eccen¬ 
tricity, coupled with the usual envy for her wealth. 
They would have called Anne eccentric, indeed, if 
they could have known the strange wild wish that 
held her heart as in a spell in this moment. 

Her wealth, her place in the world, her success, 
her triumph, how gladly would Anne have bartered 
them for one hour of those old days, when love had 
been as a perpetual sun on her sordid life, and faith 
had made all things beautiful to her! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN—” 

There were many to give a word of surprised 
regret over the news of Sir William Herrick’s most 
untimely death. He had no friends in the real sense 
of the word, but he had been exceedingly popular, 
always lavish with his money, and always ready to 
amuse society or be amused. His disappearance 
from the London world of fashion had made a 
blank, and his death brought home the inexorable 
decrees of fate tO' many of his former comrades in 
a sharp and disagreeable fashion. 

There was something fitting to so wild and irre¬ 
sponsible a life in a death at sea. The newspapers 
for a day or two had accounts of the accident which 
had been the commencement of Sir William’s ill¬ 
ness, and described how the doctors on the other 
side had tried to dissuade the sick man from under¬ 
taking the fatigue of the voyage till at least he was 
stronger, and how Sir William had insisted on re¬ 
turning to England as he was. 

The sad fact of Lady Herrick having started to 
join her husband, and having actually passed the 
ship bearing his dead body in mid ocean, was much 
commented upon, and a wave of great sympathy 
went up from innumerable hearts for Hetta. 

( 287 ) 


288 


OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN—’ 


The girl herself had reached New York, and a 
cablegram had been handed to her the instant the 
steamer entered the harbor. It was signed 
“Judith,” and it told her she was not to proceed 
to Lake Superior; that there had been a mistake, 
and that she must take a return passage the instant 
she arrived, if she were well enough to do so. 
Tired, ill at heart, and bewildered, Hetta never 
hesitated to obey. There was a Southampton boat 
sailing on the afternoon of the day she reached 
New York, and she and her maid and her boxes 
were transferred by the kindly aid of some acquaint¬ 
ances who had gone out with her, to this other 
steamer. It was not till she was actually embark¬ 
ing for home that Hetta understood the meaning 
of her dear friend’s message. Some newspapers 
had been brought on board, and sitting out on the 
deck, eagerly anxious for a breath of air, for the 
heat in and about New York was terrible just then, 
the girl read the news of her widowhood. 

She was lying in a dead faint with the newspaper 
spread out on her knee, when her maid came to> 
find her, and after she had been carried to her 
state-room, she did not emerge from it till England 
was reached. 

Judith would have gone herself to meet the poor, 
heart-sick, and weary traveler, but she was herself 
prostrated, so Hetta was greeted by servants. She 
little dreamed, or could have dreamed, that any 



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“ Oh! If I had only known ! ” 






















“OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN— ! 


289 


other creature would have come to see her safely 
landed. She had eyes for nothing, she wanted noth¬ 
ing save to be lying clasped in Judith’s arms, there 
to shed the tears that as yet had not come from 
her eves. 

Gavin stood aloof and watched her pass over 
the gangway; he noted her worn look; her slender 
young figure seemed to have grown taller, more 
commanding. His heart yearned over her. Would 
the time ever come when he would dare to go< to 
her, to lay his life’s devotion at her feet? or would 
time roll on, and keep them always apart, always 
desolate? He knew that it would have to be a 
great space that must ‘spread itself between now 
and then, if ever such a moment came. 

Tears were in his eyes as he watched her go from 
him, so beautiful in her stricken youth. He fol¬ 
lowed her to London; he followed and saw her 
enter the well-known house, then the door was 
closed, and this brief happiness was shut from him. 
It was many, many months before Gavin looked on 
Hetta Herrick again. 

By Christmas time society had grown quite ac¬ 
customed to that most extraordinary piece of ro¬ 
mance with which all the world had been startled 
at the end of the summer. True, no one had quite 
understood how or why Lord Glastonbury had not 
disclosed his secret to the world long before. Most 


290 


‘OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN—’ 


people, at least, most of his contemporaries, had 
known of the birth of his son, but all such had 
imagined that son to have died in his youth. 

The introduction and establishment of Mr. Gavin 
Dennison, the well-known author, as Gavin Vis¬ 
count Wolston, was nevertheless a delightful bit of 
gossip for many a day, and never was there so keen 
a determination on the part of society to run after 
any young man as there was during the months 
that followed on Gavin’s new known position. 

It was, however, soon seen that society was go¬ 
ing to have a run for nothing. Lord Wolston was 
invisible, he was all the time with his father down 
in the country, whither Lord Glastonbury’s phy¬ 
sician had sent him for rest, and rumor said the 
heir to the famous title was harder at work than 
ever. Hopes revived as the winter slipped away 
and the season came again; but truly Lord Wolston 
was a disappointment; he would go nowhere, his 
time was given up entirely to his literary pursuits. 
As for being any use in a matrimonial sense, well, 
it was becoming an accepted theory that he was a 
confirmed bachelor. 

One person existed who could disprove this 
theory. Anne Foster, grown prematurely aged, 
eccentric, yet still handsome, waited day after day, 
week after week for the news of Hetta’s second 
marriage, and waited in vain. Gavin she saw at 
odd times, Hetta never; it was curious what a queer 


‘OH! IF I HAD ONDY KNOWN— 5 


291 


longing this strange woman had upon her at times 
to see her step-sister, but Hetta never came to 
London. 

“The very name hurts me,” she said, passionately 
to Judith Tempest, who once the storm had passed, 
grew less of an invalid, though, of course, she was 
never strong. 

“We can live without London, happily,” Judith 
always made answer. To herself she was perpetu¬ 
ally putting a query that could never be answered, 
“Will she ever forget—will she ever see that poor 
man’s love?” 

She and Lord Glastonbury spoke of it at times, 
but they had the same doubt, and they knew that 
though Gavin’s love would live unfaded through 
years, his hope was almost dead. 

It was, after all, a chance word that brought 
Hetta to her happiness, a word in a letter written 
by her once adoring chum, Bob Beresford. Bob 
was now a grown-up school boy, but he never for¬ 
got Hetta and wrote to her frequently. 

“I saw Mr. Dennison the other day. I never 
can call him by his proper name; besides, its so 
jolly stiff to say ‘My lord’. Well, I saw him the 
other day, and doesn’t he just look ill? He’s as 
thin as a post, and he seems consumptive. I be¬ 
lieve if he doesn’t take care he’ll peg out alto¬ 
gether.” 

There was more in Bob’s letter, but Hetta only 


292 “OH! IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN—” 

read this. Some veil seemed torn from her eyes. 
Oh, how could she have been so blind as not to 
see this change in their faithful friend? In these 
two years of her \vidowhood she had never known 
a week pass without some sign of Gavin’s thought 
for her and Judith, and now he was ill. She could 
not rest until she had written to him. 

“They tell me you are ill. I want to know the 
truth,” she wrote quite frankly. 

And Gavin replied in person. He found her 
sitting under the trees in the garden of her little 
country home. 

“Do you care, in truth, whether I live or die?” 
he said to her, passionately, as she rose with a cry 
of pleasure to greet him. “Don’t you understand, 
Hetta? Is there to be life in life for me, or only a 
living death in a wasted love?” 

She stood before him amazed into silence for a 
moment, then with a rush that swept her away from 
herself, she saw into his heart and into her own. 

“Oh!” she said, with a cry of wistful surprise, of 
deepest pain, and yet of joy, “Oh! if I had only 
known! I—I have loved you all this time. I have 
not understood till now; but when they told me 
you were ill—when I remembered your goodness, 
when—” 

She finished her sentence lying on his heart. 


(THE END.) 



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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



MAR 1996 

BBftftEEPER 


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